I thought back over all the nights Neil had told me he was working late and wondered how many of them had been genuine. I wanted to ring the security guard at the bank and ask him how often he’d seen Neil working after-hours.
I could cope with gambling. If he had a problem, I could help him. We could deal with it together.
Then the missing girls materialised in my mind. Still not found.
Was the money and his staying out late somehow connected to the missing girls? Neither of the girls looked like the ones in my dream, but surely there was a connection. My dreams must have been a premonition of some sort.
Neil and the kids arrived home just after 8pm. All were smiling. Rosie returned my hugs and threw herself into my arms. Michael sort of held my arm and allowed me to give him a kiss on the top of his head.
Neil kissed me on the cheek.
I found it difficult to make eye contact with him. I didn’t want to boil over yet. Too much collateral damage. I was sure I could keep it at bay for the next hour, at least until the kids were in bed. I determined to concentrate all my attention on them.
‘Who wants ice cream?’ I said.
They both shot their hands up. Both shouted “me, me”.
I sensed an awkward movement from Neil. But I still couldn’t look at him. Maybe that was why he moved awkwardly, he could sense something from me. The steam rising from the top of my head, perhaps.
Michael and Rose bounded into the dining room. The chairs clattered as they pulled them out from the table and they at once started arguing about who was going to have the most ice cream, who was going to finish first, and who liked it the most.
Neil hung around the kitchen door.
‘Have you eaten?’ I said, my back to him.
‘Not yet,’ he said.
‘I haven’t done anything,’ I said. ‘But there are still a couple of things in the freezer if you want to do one of them.’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘That’s great. I’ll do one of them then.’
His voice was hesitant. He sounded unsure. Like he’d missed something important somewhere, but didn’t know what it was. I could imagine what was going through his mind. Is it our anniversary? Is it her Birthday? Had I promised to take her out? Has she somehow discovered my gambling addiction? Does she suspect me of killing teenage girls and lying to her about working late?
I wanted to scream at him right then and there. Wanted to turn and face him and scream. Focus on the children, Christine.
‘I’ve missed you guys so much,’ I called out. ‘Have you been having a fantastic time at Abi’s?’
They shouted and laughed back at me. Michael leapt out of his chair and charged around the dining table, making a noise like a racing car.
‘I think you need to get a little bit more excited,’ I said. ‘Get some energy from somewhere.’
I heard another chair scrape and Rosie’s voice joined Michael’s. A higher pitched racing car.
Neil turned to face them. Relieved, no doubt, to have something else to concentrate on other than the obvious, but not understood, tension between us.
We both managed to spend most of our time talking and playing with Michael and Rose. Neil made his own tea, but when I went into the kitchen to get a coffee later I saw half the meal still on the plate.
I insisted on being the one to put the kids to bed. Rose smiled when she read my note. When I went into Michael the note was on his floor.
‘I wrote you a note,’ I said.
‘I read it. Thank you. I put it on the floor.’
I picked it up and slipped it under his pillow. He shifted his head from side to side as though I had just put a writhing hedgehog under it.
‘It’s only a note,’ I said.
‘It crinkles when I move.’
I reached under the pillow again and pulled out the note. I folded it on his bedside cabinet and slid it between his clock and glass of water.
I didn’t go straight downstairs. Instead I sat on our bed for a few minutes, gathering my thoughts and straightening my clothes. I wished we had a separate annexe to the house. I had a feeling I was going to find it difficult to stay in control and I didn’t want to disturb Michael or Rose.
I crept downstairs when I felt ready. Neil was perched on the edge of the sofa. His hands were pressed palms together, the tips of his fingers resting on the end of his nose, as though in prayer. His eyes looked wide and his legs were shaking. He often shook his legs. I took it as a sign of restlessness, always wanting to be doing something. But tonight I could see it was nerves.
I walked slowly to the armchair and sat down, looking across diagonally at him. He looked over at me and tried to make his face do something. But it seemed paralysed. If he had been trying for a reassuring smile, he had failed. I took the lid off the cauldron inside me.
‘So, how was work?’ I said.
He blushed immediately. His eyes flickered as he tried to work out how much I knew. How much he should admit to up-front, and how much he could still avoid telling me. He hesitated. Tried to look me in the eye, but couldn’t stop his eyes from veering off when he spoke.
‘Oh, it was…you know…same old, same old,’ he said.
The cauldron boiled over — quicker, even, than I had been expecting. My face burned and I gripped the arms of the chair. I thought of Michael and Rose upstairs and kept my voice to a hiss.
‘Yes I do fucking know,’ I said. ‘I really fucking do.’
He parted his praying hands. And they slapped down onto his shaking legs. He opened his mouth but his deceiving brain hadn’t yet decided what words he could use.
‘I know you weren’t at fucking work,’ I said. ‘I spoke to the security guard. You know? The one who was “helping” you with your work?’
He shifted about on the edge of the sofa. His neck had turned as red as his face.
I didn’t think I could maintain the hiss for much longer. The rage was already screaming through my body. It was only a matter of time before it engaged my vocal cords too.
‘And I know about the money. I know you’ve been taking it out, then putting some back, then taking it out again. Sometimes ten or more times a day. All from the same machine.’
I knew I was chancing it a bit with the last comment. I didn’t know for sure it was the same machine. His lack of reaction told me the chance had been worth taking.
‘And all this time you were telling me you had to work late. Night after night. Night after fucking night, Neil.’
His shoulders sagged. He closed his eyes. Then he shook his head and smiled.
Inside me, something exploded.
He opened his eyes as the first swing tore across his cheek. I could see the blood, drawn by my nails, popping up in spots from the open wounds. He slammed his palm to the cuts. Although I could see he was shocked, he managed to stand up. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
I struck him again, this time on the other side of his face. Once again my nails drew blood. I knew I had to get as much of an attack in as I could, before he started attacking me. I was no match for his strength, I knew that, but I definitely had the initial element of surprise, and I knew I had the moral advantage. Plus I still had a bubbling cauldron of burning rage inside me.
I kicked out at him. Grabbed his ears and kicked at his legs. He tried to push me off, but I had such a firm grip of his ears it made him wince. He grabbed my hands and squeezed them. Desperate to make me let go of his ears. It worked. I shut my eyes and waited for the reprisal. He held my arms down at my side.
‘Christine!’ he shouted.
I opened my eyes. His looked into mine. Imploring me to stop.
I bared my teeth and lunged at his face. His head shot backwards, but not before I bit him just below the red-raw scratches on his cheek.
He turned away in pain and fell over the sofa onto his front. I screamed, and used my talons on his back, tried to rip the shirt from his body. He flailed his arms behind him, a desperate attempt to knock my hands away. He dragged himself up
and, once again, got hold of my hands, held them tightly in his. This time he held himself further away from me. Looked down at my legs, checked to see what my next move was. For a brief moment everything stopped. As though the camera had clicked into ultra-slow motion. A bead of sweat flew from his face in an arc. I watched it float through the air. And in that brief moment, I realised that he wasn’t fighting back. All he was doing, was trying to stop me from hurting him.
The realisation sent my mind spinning, but the moment was over.
I kicked his left knee, wrenched my hands from his, spat at him and slashed out at his face, catching the end of his nose with my nails.
He fell back again but my hand was caught in his shirt. It ripped as he fell. I scratched at his chest and stomach. As his shirt flew open the tops of his arms became visible. I went after them too.
Jagged lines of wounds and blood scored his body. Front and back, blood seeped from the open scratches. Even though the shirt still covered his back, blood had already patterned it from where I had dug through the shirt with my nails. And still he didn’t fight back. Nor did he cover his face or any part of his body with his hands as I attacked. He just tried to hold my hands and wrists to stop me. Nothing more.
I think the cauldron boiled dry.
I think I stood back and looked at him.
I think I started to laugh.
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