RACHEL

SUNDAY, AUGUST 18, 2013
AFTERNOON
In the living room, we sit in a little triangle: Tom onthe sofa, the adoring father and dutiful husband,daughter on his lap, wife at his side. And the ex-wifeopposite, sipping her tea. Very civilized. I’m sitting inthe leather armchair that we bought from Heal’s justafter we got married—it was the first piece offurniture we got as a married couple: soft tan butteryleather, expensive, luxurious. I remember how excitedI was when it was delivered. I remember curling upin it, feeling safe and happy, thinking, This is whatmarriage is—safe, warm, comfortable.
Tom is watching me, his brow knitted. He’s workingout what to do, how to fix things. He’s not worriedabout Anna, I can see that. I’m the problem.
“She was a bit like you,” he says all of a sudden.
He leans back on the sofa, shifting his daughter to amore comfortable position on his lap. “Well, she wasand she wasn’t. She had that thing?.?.?. messy, youknow. I can’t resist that.” He grins at me. “Knight inshining armour, me.”
“You’re no one’s knight,” I say quietly.
“Ah, Rach, don’t be like that. Don’t you remember?
You all sad, because Daddy’s died, and just wantingsomeone to come home to, someone to love you? Igave you all that. I made you feel safe. Then youdecided to piss it all away, but you can’t blame mefor that.”
“I can blame you for a lot of things, Tom.”
“No, no.” He wags a finger at me. “Let’s not startrewriting history. I was good to you. Sometimes?.?.?.
well, sometimes you forced my hand. But I was goodto you. I took care of you,” he says, and it’s onlythen that it really registers: he lies to himself the wayhe lies to me. He believes this. He actually believesthat he was good to me.
The child starts to wail suddenly and loudly, andAnna gets abruptly to her feet.
“I need to change her,” she says“Not now.”
“She’s wet, Tom. She needs changing. Don’t becruel.”
He looks at Anna sharply, but he hands the cryingchild to her. I try to catch her eye, but she won’tlook at me. My heart rises into my throat as sheturns to go upstairs, but it sinks again just as fast,because Tom is on his feet, his hand on her arm.
“Do it here,” he says. “You can do it here.”
Anna goes across into the kitchen and changes thechild’s nappy on the table. The smell of shit fills theroom, it turns my stomach.
“Are you going to tell us why?” I ask him. Annastops what’s she’s doing and looks across at us. Theroom is still, quiet, save for the babbling of the child.
Tom shakes his head, almost in disbelief himself.
“She could be very like you, Rach. She wouldn’t letthings go. She didn’t know when she was over. Shejust?.?.?. she wouldn’t listen. Remember how youalways argued with me, how you always wanted thelast word? Megan was like that. She wouldn’t listen.”
He shifts in his seat and leans forward, his elbowson his knees, as if he’s telling me a story. “When westarted, it was just fun, just fucking. She led me tobelieve that was what she was into. But then shechanged her mind. I don’t know why. She was allover the place, that girl. She’d have a bad day withScott, or she’d just be a bit bored, and she’d starttalking about us going away together, starting over,about me leaving Anna and Evie. As if I would! Andif I wasn’t there on demand when she wanted me,she’d be furious, calling here, threatening me, tellingme she was going to come round, that she wasgoing to tell Anna about us.
“But then it stopped. I was so relieved. I thoughtshe’d finally managed to get it into her head that Iwasn’t interested any longer. But then that Saturdayshe called, saying she needed to talk, that she hadsomething important to tell me. I ignored her, so shestarted making threats again—she was going to cometo the house, that sort of thing. I wasn’t too worriedat first, because Anna was going out. You remember,darling? You were supposed to be going out todinner with the girls, and I was going to babysit. Ithought perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad thing—shewould come round and I’d have it out with her. I’dmake her understand. But then you came along,Rachel, and fucked everything up.”
He leans back on the sofa, his legs spread wideapart, the big man, taking up space. “It was yourfault. The whole thing was actually your fault, Rachel.
Anna didn’t end up having dinner with herfriends—she was back here after five minutes, upsetand angry because you were out there, pissed asusual, stumbling around with some bloke outside thestation. She was worried that you were going tohead over here. She was worried about Evie.
“So instead of sorting things out with Megan, I hadto go out and deal with you.” His lip curls. “God, thestate of you. Looking like shit, stinking of wine?.?.?.
you tried to kiss me, do you remember?” Hepretends to gag, then starts laughing. Anna laughs,too, and I can’t tell whether she finds it funny orwhether she’s trying to appease him.
“I needed to make you understand that I didn’twant you anywhere near me—near us. So I took youback up the road into the underpass so that youwouldn’t be making a scene in the street. And I toldyou to stay away. And you cried and whined, so Igave you a smack to shut you up, and you criedand whined some more.” He’s talking through grittedteeth; I can see the muscle tensing in his jaw. “I wasso pissed off, I just wanted you to go away andleave us alone, you and Megan. I have my family. Ihave a good life.” He glances over at Anna, who istrying to get the child to sit down in the high chair.
Her face is completely expressionless. “I’ve made agood life for myself, despite you, despiteMegan—despite everything.
“It was after I’d seen you that Megan came along.
She was heading down towards Blenheim Road. Icouldn’t let her go to the house. I couldn’t let hertalk to Anna, could I? I told her that we could gosomewhere and talk, and I meant it—that was all Iwas going to do. So we got into the car and droveto Corly, to the wood. It was a place we sometimesused to go, if we hadn’t got a room. Do it in thecar.”
From my seat on the sofa, I can feel Anna flinch.
“You have to believe me, Anna, I didn’t intend forthings to go the way they did.” Tom looks at her,then hunches over, looking down at the palms of hishands. “She started going on about the baby—shedidn’t know if it was mine or his. She wantedeverything out in the open, and if it was mine she’dbe OK with me seeing it?.?.?. I was saying, ‘I’m notinterested in your baby, it’s got nothing to do withme.’” He shakes his head. “She got all upset, butwhen Megan gets upset?.?.?. she’s not like Rachel.
There’s no crying and whining. She was screaming atme, swearing, saying all sorts of shit, telling me she’dgo straight to Anna, she wasn’t going to be ignored,her child wasn’t going to be neglected?.?.?. Christ, shejust wouldn’t fucking shut up. So?.?.?. I don’t know, Ijust needed her to stop. So I picked up a rock”—hestares down at his right hand, as though he can seeit now—“and I just?.?.?.” He closes his eyes and sighsdeeply. “It was just one hit, but she was?.?.?.” Hepuffs out his cheeks, exhales slowly. “I didn’t meanfor this. I just wanted her to stop. She was bleedinga lot. She was crying, making a horrible noise. Shetried to crawl away from me. There was nothing Icould do. I had to finish it.”
The sun is gone, the room is dark. It’s quiet, savefor the sound of Tom’s breathing, ragged andshallow. There’s no street noise. I can’t rememberthe last time I heard a train.
“I put her in the boot of the car,” he says. “I drovea bit farther into the wood, off the road. There wasno one around. I had to dig?.?.?.” His breathing isshallower still, quickening. “I had to dig with my barehands. I was afraid.” He looks up at me, his pupilshuge. “Afraid that someone would come. And it waspainful, my fingernails ripped in the soil. It took along time. I had to stop to phone Anna, to tell her Iwas out looking for you.”
He clears his throat. “The ground was actually quitesoft, but I still couldn’t go down as deep as Iwanted. I was so afraid that someone would come. Ithought there would be a chance to go back, lateron, when things had all died down. I thought Iwould be able to move her, put her somewhere?.?.?.
better. But then it started raining and I never got thechance.”
He looks up at me with a frown. “I was almostsure that the police would go for Scott. She told mehow paranoid he was about her screwing around,that he used to read her emails, check up on her. Ithought?.?.?. well, I was planning to put her phone inhis house at some point. I don’t know. I thought Imight go round there for a beer or something, afriendly neighbour kind of thing. I don’t know. Ididn’t have a plan. I hadn’t thought it all through. Itwasn’t like a premeditated thing. It was just a terribleaccident.”
But then his demeanour changes again. It’s likeclouds scudding across the sky, now dark, now light.
He gets to his feet and walks slowly over to thekitchen, where Anna is now sitting at the table,feeding Evie. He kisses her on the top of the head,then lifts his daughter out of the chair.
“Tom?.?.?.” Anna starts to protest.
“It’s OK.” He smiles at his wife. “I just want acuddle. Don’t I, darling?” He goes over to the fridgewith his daughter in his arms and pulls out a beer.
He looks over at me. “You want one?”
I shake my head.
“No, best not, I suppose.”
I hardly hear him. I’m calculating whether I canreach the front door from here before he can gethold of me. If it’s just on the latch, I reckon I couldmake it. If he’s locked it, then I’d be in trouble. Ipitch myself forward and run. I get into thehallway—my hand is almost on the doorhandle—when I feel the bottle hit the back of myskull. There’s an explosion of pain, white before myeyes, and I crumple to my knees. His fingers twistinto my hair as he grabs a fistful and pulls, draggingme back into the living room, where he lets go. Hestands above me, straddling me, one foot on eitherside of my hips. His daughter is still in his arms, butAnna is at his side, tugging at her.
“Give her to me, Tom, please. You’re going to hurther. Please, give her to me.”
He hands the wailing Evie over to Anna.
I can hear Tom talking, but it seems like he’s along way away, or as though I’m hearing himthrough water. I can make out the words but theysomehow don’t seem to apply to me, to what’shappening to me. Everything is happening at oneremove.
“Go upstairs,” he says. “Go into the bedroom andshut the door. You mustn’t call anyone, OK? I meanit, Anna. You don’t want to call anyone. Not withEvie here. We don’t want things to turn nasty.” Annadoesn’t look down at me. She clutches the child toher chest, steps over me and hurries away.
Tom bends down, slips his hands into the waistbandof my jeans, grabs hold of them and drags me alongthe floor into the kitchen. I’m kicking out with mylegs, trying to get a hold of something, but I can’t. Ican’t see properly—tears are stinging my eyes,everything is a blur. The pain in my head isexcruciating as I bump along the floor, and I feel awave of nausea come over me. There’s hot, whitepain as something connects with my temple. Thennothing.