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As a teenager, all I wanted was to be the same as everyone else. It’s only now that I realise how dull my life might have turned out if I was.
I reached the top of the hill, soaked to the skin and out of breath, and had to put everything down and rest for a moment. I looked at the pattern of ugly red grooves on my cold fingers – temporary scars from all the bags – and rubbed the palms of my hands together, trying to make the lines disappear and warm myself up at the same time. Then I turned onto our lane, the highest in Blackdown. You could see for miles from up there in those days, before they started building the big fancy houses on the hill. There were uninterrupted views of the village below, the woods surrounding it, and the patchwork quilt of countryside in the distance, unfolding all the way to the blue haze of the sea on a clear day. It was the perfect spot to look down at all the people who normally looked down on us.
Our house might have been the smallest, but it was also the prettiest, tucked away all by itself at the dead end of the lane. In summer there were coachloads of tourists that came to visit what is still often described as the most quintessential English village. They walked to the top of the hill for the views, but sometimes they took pictures of our cottage too while they were there. Not that my mother minded. She would spend hours in the front garden, planting and pruning, as well as painting our front door every spring. She made the place look shiny and new, despite it being over one hundred years old.
I didn’t bother to look for my key; there was always one hidden under the pretty flowerpot on the porch. Even before I slotted it into the lock that day, I could hear the television, and suspected my mother had fallen asleep in front of it. I stepped inside before deliberately slamming the door behind me.
‘Mum!’
I shouted her name like an accusation, before dropping my wet coat and bags on the floor, literally dripping onto the carpet. I thought about not removing my school shoes – that would have really upset her – but instead I dutifully untied my laces and left them by the door. My socks were wet, so I took them off too.
‘Mum!’
I called her again, irritated that she hadn’t already answered and acknowledged my existence. I stomped through to the lounge and saw that she’d put up the Christmas tree. The fairy lights were twinkling like stars, but they didn’t hold my attention for long. There were no presents underneath, just my mother, lying face-down on the floor and covered in blood.
There was a trail of muddy footprints on the carpet behind her, as though she had crawled in from the garden. I tried to whisper her name again, but the word got stuck in my throat. When my brain caught up with what my eyes were seeing, I fell down onto the floor beside my mother’s broken body, and tried to turn her over. Her hair had been stained red with blood, and was stuck to the side of her battered and bruised face. Her eyes were closed, her clothes were torn, and her arms and legs were covered in cuts and scratches.
‘Mum?’ I whispered, afraid to touch her again.
‘Anna?’
Her head turned and her right eye opened a little; the left one was swollen shut. I didn’t know what to do. The twisted sound of her rasping voice seemed to hurt my ears, and I had a terrible urge to run away. She looked over my shoulder then, at the old cream rotary phone on the coffee table. I leapt up, hurrying towards it.
‘I’ll call the police—’
‘No,’ she said.
It was clear from the look on her face that speaking – even a single word – was causing enormous pain.
‘Why not?’
‘No police.’
‘I’ll call an ambulance then,’ I said, dialling the first nine.
‘No.’
She started to crawl towards me, and it was like something from a horror film.
‘Mum, please. I have to call someone. You need help. I’ll call Dad. He’ll know what to do and he’ll come home and—’
She reached towards me with a trembling, bloody hand. Then took hold of the phone, and ripped it right out of the wall before collapsing back onto the floor.
I started to cry, and thought of maybe going to find a neighbour who could help.
‘No neighbours,’ she croaked, as though reading my mind the way she often did. ‘No police, no anybody. Promise me.’
She stared at me with her good eye until I nodded that I understood, then rested her head back down on the floor.
‘I’ll be OK. I just need to rest,’ she said, her voice so faint I could barely hear it.
She seemed determined to make the decision for me, but I still wasn’t convinced it was the right one.
‘Why can’t I at least call Dad?’
She let out a breath, as though the silence were a note she’d been made to hold too long.
‘Because Dad is the one who did this to me.’
Him
Tuesday 10:15
Sometimes this job is all about making decisions. I’ve learned over the years that whether those decisions are right or wrong is often secondary to the ability to make them in the first place. Besides, ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ are highly subjective.
I shouldn’t be here; I know I’m right about that. Loitering outside the house my ex-wife grew up in might be frowned upon – even though I have my reasons – but there are some people we never really let go of in life. Or death. Even when we pretend to. They are always still there, lurking in our loneliest thoughts, haunting our memories with dreams that can no longer come true.
I’m no Casanova; more of a serial monogamist… until Rachel came along. I can count the number of women I’ve slept with on one hand. But, regardless of how many women I have known, I only truly loved one. I left London because it was the right thing to do for Anna. People don’t know what real love is until they lose it. Most never find it in the first place, but when you do, you’ll do anything for that person.
I know, because I did.
It was what was best for her, but it might turn out to be the worst mistake I’ve ever made.
Regardless of whether I should or shouldn’t be here now, I am, and I’m certain I just heard someone scream. I wouldn’t be much of a man or a detective if I didn’t do something about it.
I use my phone to take a picture of the parking ticket showing yesterday’s date in Anna’s car, then head towards her mother’s house. I lift the broken gate and check over my shoulder to see whether anyone is watching me. I conclude that they aren’t and carry on along the uneven, weed-stained path. I ignore the front door, choosing instead to walk down the side of the house, towards the back, where I expect they will be.
I stop when I hear voices inside.
I can’t quite make out what is being said, but also don’t want to risk being seen. I wait for a minute, leaning against the wall, concluding it might be best to just turn around. The sensible thing to do would be to get in my car, head back to HQ, and do my job. But then I hear it again, what sounds like another scream.
It scares the hesitation out of me long enough to look through the kitchen window. I see Anna and her mother, who I notice is taking the kettle off the hob, and realise that must be what I heard. I had forgotten that boiling water that way is one of my former mother-in-law’s many old-fashioned and odd habits. My ex-wife has more in common with her than she would like to believe.
