by TM Logan
‘Valium. Supposed to be for when she goes on plane trips.’
Beth lay out full-length on one of the sofas, in a blue silk dressing gown that was too big for her. There was a tall glass by her hand on the floor, tipped over, a wet stain on the carpet. The only lights on were small and cast more shadows than anything else. The big plasma TV on the wall was muted into silence.
‘Beth?’
No response. Various pills and blister packs of different sizes were scattered across the glass-topped coffee table. She was snoring quietly.
One of Ben’s shotguns was laid across the other sofa.
‘Daddy, what’s that?’ William said in a loud voice.
‘Just a walking stick,’ I said.
‘It looks like a gun.’
I picked it up and leaned it next to the window, out of Beth’s reach, then sat down on the sofa opposite and patted the spot next to me. Reluctantly, my son sat down. He was still staring at the shotgun.
‘Beth?’ I said again.
She snorted but didn’t stir. From my jacket pocket came a tinkling wind chime sound – a text message on Mel’s mobile.
We still on for 8, beautiful girl? xxx
7.12 p.m. Ben mob
The irony was so thick I felt like I could reach out and touch it. The irony of receiving a text from Ben, meant for my cheating wife, while I was with his cheated-on wife, in the living room of his house. I typed a reply, imitating the style that my wife had used earlier:
Of course! Can’t wait Mr D xxx
7.13 p.m. Me
I put the phone away and tapped Beth’s foot gently.
‘Beth?’ A little louder this time. ‘Are you OK?’
Her eyes opened to slits, slowly, looking around as if she didn’t know where she was. She raising herself up on her elbows, frowning. Her gaze went from me, to William, to the TV, the pills on the coffee table, before returning to me. She sat up, unsticking the hair from her cheek. The dressing gown seemed to hang off her and I could guess why: it was Ben’s.
‘– time is it?’ she said, her voice thick and distant. She picked up a glass on the table, saw it was empty, and slowly put it down again.
‘Ten past seven.’
She swung her legs off the sofa, looking at me intently as if she was trying to remember who I was. Blinked slowly.
‘What d’you want? . . . s’going on?’
William reached out and clasped my hand. I folded his small hand in mine and felt him edging closer to me, half hiding behind my shoulder. It was clear already that I should have listened to my wife – turning up here had been a very poor decision, and I was starting to see why.
There was no question of leaving our boy with Beth. Not when she was totally spaced out like this.
‘Just wanted to check you were OK, Beth, after this afternoon. I was quite concerned about you.’
‘’Bout me?’ Her glazed eyes were half shut, the lids closing and opening in slow motion. ‘Why? I’m fine.’
‘You look tired.’
She looked at her wrist, frowning. She wasn’t wearing a watch.
‘What time d’you say it was?’
‘Seven ten.’
Beth smiled, pointed a manicured finger at William.
‘Past your bedtime, young chap.’
‘My bedtime’s seven fifteen,’ he replied. ‘But I’m allowed late bed tonight so Mummy can meet her friend.’
Beth nodded. Her smile faded.
‘What friend?’
I stood up.
‘We should go. Come on, Wills.’
‘What friend?’ she repeated, moving to get up off the sofa. ‘Is it Ben?’
‘No.’
Trust nobody.
She stood, swaying, blinking, before sitting back down heavily.
‘Is it Ben? Have you found him?’
She sagged back into the sofa cushions, seeming to fold in on herself.
‘Ben,’ she said again, her voice forlorn, eyes already closing.
‘We’ll be off, Beth. I’m glad you’re OK.’
Alice was in the hall with her coat on, two-thumb typing on her mobile. She had pinned her hair up off her forehead and the resemblance to her father was striking.
‘What was that about my dad?’
‘Nothing. You need to check on your mum.’
‘Been trying that. She keeps saying she’s fine.’
‘She needs looking after – don’t let her take any more pills, and definitely no alcohol.’
‘She doesn’t really drink.’ Her phone chimed and she checked the display.’ Anyway, I’m going to meet up with my friends.’
‘You’ll have to rearrange, your mum’s completely zoned out.’
‘She’ll be all right.’
‘She needs you here.’
‘I promised my friends.’ She was backing away from me, towards the front door.
I knelt to zip William’s coat up and when I turned back, the front door stood ajar. Alice was gone.
Mel’s mobile chimed in my pocket again.
Not going to stand me up again like last time are you?
xxx
7.14 p.m. Ben mob
I stared at the message, confused. Last time? What last time?
‘Daddy, come on,’ William said, pulling at my hand like he was leaning into a strong wind.
I hesitated a moment longer, then followed Alice out and pulled the heavy front door shut behind me.
Mel was standing by the tall white birdhouse halfway up the drive, arms crossed. She looked nervously at the door behind me, as if Beth might burst through it at any moment.
‘Well?’ she said in a half whisper.
‘You were right. Let’s go.’
46
We split up at the mall, Mel taking up position in the front of a Starbucks on the ground floor of the main atrium, me and William taking the escalator up to a second-floor balcony where metal tables and chairs were arranged outside a mostly empty Costa Coffee. My heart was starting to thump in my chest. I was actually excited, elated almost, about the prospect of bringing Ben’s runaway train to a halt. I was leaving nothing to chance: I had my Nikon, plus zoom lens, to make sure I got him in focus. Three good pictures should do it. Bang bang bang. Press the shutter and just keep pressing it. Christ, one good picture would do it. One good shot of his face.
7.49 p.m. I put the camera’s viewfinder to my eye.
From my vantage point on the second floor, I could see Mel on the ground floor about sixty feet away, sitting at a table in front of Starbucks, sipping a skinny cappuccino. There was a copy of Metro that someone had left behind spread out in front of her. It was odd seeing her with a newspaper – she didn’t read them, not even free ones. She’d choose Heat, Closer or Hello! every time.
William sat cross-legged on the floor behind me with his cars, oblivious to everything. I turned away from him, back to the balcony, and put the camera’s viewfinder to my eye again. A slim figure all in black – black jeans, black jacket, black baseball cap – crossed my field of view. I adjusted the lens but not quite quickly enough as the figure disappeared from sight beneath the first-floor balcony just as they came into focus. I waited for the figure to reappear. Ten seconds, twenty, keeping the camera pointed at the same spot.
A minute went by, and the figure in black still didn’t reappear. The world seemed to go quiet around me. Mel still sat alone at Starbucks, cup cradled in both hands. Her instructions were that she was not, under any circumstances, to look up at the balcony. One glance up here, at me with my camera, and Ben would be gone.
Mel’s phone buzzed in my pocket and I lowered the Nikon. A picture message. An image filled the mobile’s small screen.
It was a picture of William playing with his cars on a blue-and-white tiled floor. Quite close, maybe twenty feet from the camera. In the background of the shot, I could see a tall figure in a blue jacket hunched over a table, camera poised as if ready to take a shot.
I looked down. It was t
his tiled floor.
The tall figure in the picture was me.
The message read:
Whatever you do Joe keep 1 eye on little William. If he was to wander off I doubt you’d ever find him again
7.56 p.m. Ben mob
My stomach lurched, a flutter of panic.
William –
My coffee went flying across the table as I turned.
His toy cars were there on the floor. His little rucksack.
William, no not that –
My son was there too.
Lying flat out on the floor, rolling a car in each hand.
He’s OK.
I stood up quickly to see if the picture-taker was still there, but saw only two elderly ladies, a cleaner mopping the floor and a lanky teenager talking on a mobile phone. No one who looked like Ben.
The phone buzzed in my hand as another message dropped in.
This time it was a picture of Mel, sitting in Starbucks, pretending to read Metro.
You must think I’m a fucking idiot. Mel + newspaper = epic fail
7.57 p.m. Ben mob
The picture was taken from the same side of the mall as me, but directly below me. Two floors down.
Ben’s here.
In the same building as me, thirty feet of concrete and steel and fresh air separating us.
This was my chance. It was now or never.
I stood up, grabbed my son and ran, slamming through the double doors and hitting the escalator at a run, taking the steps down two at a time as the Nikon bounced against my chest.
‘My cars!’ William cried, reaching out with both hands as he tried to squirm out of my grip.
‘We’ll go back for them,’ I said breathlessly.
We hit the first floor and I turned and leaped onto the next escalator down to the ground floor, running down it full pelt, William bumping against my hip, his arms tight around me, clinging on. I jumped the last two steps, skidded, turned, and sprinted out into middle of the main atrium – where Ben would have been when he took the last picture.
A frowning security guard looked over at the commotion, arms crossed.
Mel looked alarmed to see me.
‘What’s happened? Are you OK?’
‘He was here,’ I panted. ‘Did you see him?’
She shook her head.
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Christ. Well he certainly saw you. And me.’
‘Where? When?’
‘Just now, not more than a minute ago. He was right here, he took your picture. You sure you didn’t see him?’
‘I didn’t recognise anyone. I’m sorry, Joe.’
‘Damn! Thought we had him.’
The frustration was bitter in my mouth. Ben had just played me to perfection. Again.
‘Damn,’ William repeated, imitating me. ‘Damn damn damn. Can we get my cars now?’
I sat in the passenger seat of Mel’s VW on the way home. I wanted to drive, but Mel took one look at me, the frustration coming off me in waves, and refused point-blank to let me drive in that state with our child in the back.
Think. There were two possibilities, as far as I could tell. It was possible that he had seen me first and realised it was a set-up.
Either that or he had been warned in advance.
47
William was sluggish with drowsiness, wanting to be helped with everything. I took his coat off and knelt to help him with his shoes, all the while watching my wife out of the corner of my eye, waiting until she had taken her jacket off and put her handbag down on the hall table.
‘Could you put Wills to bed tonight?’ I said. ‘I need a drink.’
She nodded and leaned down to him, arms outstretched.
‘Of course. Come on, little chimp.’
‘Do you want a drink?’
‘Go on then, if you’re having one.’
William allowed himself to be picked up, clinging to Mel like a limpet, head on her shoulder straight away. Quarter to nine was a late night for him. Mel turned and headed slowly up the stairs, William mumbling something about having a story into her neck.
‘You’re too tired for a story, William.’
Our son made a noise like he didn’t agree but was too tired to argue.
I walked through into the kitchen noisily and deliberately. Took my shoes off and tiptoed back into the hall, in time to see Mel reach the top of the staircase and turn right onto the landing, out of sight.
For a second I almost changed my mind. I didn’t want to find evidence that my wife might still lying to me, but at the same time I had to know. To find out if my instincts could be right about what had happened tonight. To be right about something, for once. It had to be better than the feeling of slowly going mad, inch by paranoid inch.
It is better to know than not know.
Mel’s lightweight black jacket had four pockets. A packet of chewing gum, some tissues, a lip balm, but nothing that was the right size for a mobile phone. I draped it back over the banister and unzipped her handbag, my pulse starting to throb as if I was shoplifting and about to get caught. The handbag was soft brown leather, expensive, smooth to the touch. My son and my wife were talking in low voices in his bedroom. He would be trying to convince her that he was too tired to clean his teeth, but I prayed that she would stick to the rules on that subject, tonight of all nights. It would buy me another minute or two while he brushed.
The bag was full of pockets and zips and flaps, and I went through them as fast as I dared, pulling out and putting back three lipsticks, another lip balm, her purse, a make-up compact, a folding mirror, a small packet of sanitary pads, her keys, a key ring-sized torch, a rape alarm, a hairbrush and assorted hairbands, three biros, half a packet of Polos, her small diary. Standard twenty-first century woman’s handbag.
No good. I checked the outside zip pocket. More of the same. Nothing hidden, no phone.
And yet, there was something. Extra weight that should not have been there, a solid shape that didn’t correspond with any of the contents I’d found. Using both hands, I pressed the leather sides of the bag together. There it was again. A shape: small, flat, about the size of a packet of playing cards, but thinner. I checked the bag again, trying to trace the location of the shape from the inside. My fingers traced the bottom seam of the bag.
There was a slit in the lining about six inches long, hidden by the folded leather seam. Straight and deliberate, a cut rather than a rip.
I reached in, feeling the sweat under my shirt.
There was a brush of carpet as William’s bedroom door opened and I hurriedly put the handbag back on the hall table, stepping back into the shadows of the lounge. I could just see their feet crossing the landing as Mel shepherded William in front of her to the bathroom. A click-clack as the bathroom light cord was pulled, a slab of light spilling out onto the landing. I hesitated – just for a second – feeling my heart thudding in my chest. My wife had already betrayed me, I knew that, but she had asked for my forgiveness. She had lied, and I had found her out. So what was this?
It is better to know.
I stepped back out into the hall and went back into her handbag, reaching up and through the lining until my fingers touched smooth hard plastic. I grabbed it and pulled it out.
It was a compact Samsung mobile phone – black, no case, new-looking.
Mel had owned an iPhone for as long as Apple had made them, she wouldn’t use anything else.
I had never seen this Samsung before.
It only had one button that I could see. The phone’s lock screen came to life, a keypad and prompt asking me for a four-digit pin.
Four digits. What would she use? Presumably I had three chances to get it right before the phone locked me out.
Her birthday? 15 September. 1509.
The digits of the keypad shook. No good. The sound of Mel’s voice reached me from upstairs, calm but firm, her you-will-clean-your-teeth voice. It would be maybe sixty seconds before they were done
in the bathroom.
When was Ben’s birthday? I didn’t know. Shit. Sometime in January.
What else would she use? We used our house number as the parental lock on the TV to make sure William didn’t stumble across Game of Thrones on catch-up.
4343.
The keypad numbers shook again. Wrong. A bead of cold sweat traced a line down my ribcage.
Last chance before the phone locked. I tried the only other combination I could think of: William’s birthday.
1406.
The phone unlocked to reveal a screen full of apps. His birthday. Of course.
I was in.
Work fast.
It was on silent mode, which made sense. I hit the text messages icon.
The screen showed: empty
She must delete as she goes along, I thought. Smart.
I heard the toilet flush from the bathroom upstairs. Concentrate. Call history: see what calls had been made and received from this handset in the last few days.
The screen showed: empty
No calls in memory. No texts either. I found this bloody phone, figured out the passcode, this can’t be a busted flush. It can’t be. There had to be something, somehow, that I could learn from it.
This must have been the phone she used to take pictures of herself, the naked selfies she had sent to Ben. It would have been too risky with her iPhone – William played regularly on both our mobiles, and half the apps we’d downloaded were games to keep him occupied in the supermarket or the car or sitting on the bus. He seemed to have an instinctive knowledge for navigating the average mobile phone, and the risk of him accidentally finding a compromising picture was too high.
No. She would have used another phone to keep Ben happy. This phone.
I hit the app marked Album on the home screen.
For the third time, the screen showed: empty
So: no texts, no calls, no pictures. Almost as if it had been wiped. But I knew that was not actually very easy to do, unless you selected factory reset and literally went back to square one. Like an old phone she’d given me when William dropped mine in the paddling pool last year – she thought everything had been deleted but there were still some random selfies that he had taken, saved in an automatic back up file.
