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I don’t know how long I cry. But when I’ve finished, there’s still no smell of fire. Only the acrid reek of lighter fluid.
I think of Simon, somewhere below me, feeling sorry for himself too. His pathetic, needy sniveling.
And I think: No.
I am not Emma Matthews, disorganized and vulnerable. I am a mother who has buried one child and carries another inside me.
It would be so easy to stay here in this attic, luxuriating in the sweet passivity of grief. To lie down and wait for the smoke to seep up through the joists, wrapping itself around me, pulling me down.
But that is not what I do.
Some primeval instinct propels me to my feet. Almost before I’m aware of it I’m lowering myself down through the hatch again. Quietly, I take the mops and brooms away from the cupboard door.
The necklace is still in my pocket. Pulling it out, I snap the strings, letting the pearls fall loose into my hand.
Softly, gently, I open the door.
One Folgate Street is unrecognizable. The walls are daubed with graffiti. Pillows and cushions have been ripped apart. Smashed crockery litters the floor. There’s what looks like blood smeared across the plate-glass windows. As well as lighter fluid, I catch the smell of natural gas from the stove.
As if from nowhere, he appears at the foot of the stairs. “Jane. I’m so glad.”
“I can be her for you.” I haven’t planned this, not in any detail, but now it seems obvious to me what I have to say and the words come out of my mouth without hesitation or tremors. “Emma. Nice Emma, the one you loved. I’ll be Emma for you, and then you’ll let me go. Yes?”
He stares up at me without replying.
I try to imagine how Emma might have spoken, the rhythms of her voice. “Wow,” I say, looking around. “You’ve really done a number on this place, haven’t you, babe? You must really love me, Si, to do all this. I never realized how passionate you were.”
Suspicion battles in his eyes with something else. Happiness? Love? I place a hand on my belly.
“Simon, there’s something you should know. You’re going to be a dad. Isn’t that great?”
He flinches. The bastard’s little bastard. “Let’s go and lie down, Si,” I say quickly, sensing I’ve taken this too far. “Just for a few minutes. I’ll rub your back, and you can rub mine. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it? A cuddle would be nice.”
“Nice,” he repeats, coming up the stairs. His voice is hoarse with longing. “Yes.”
“Will you take a shower?”
He nods, then something hardens in his gaze. “You too.”
“I’ll just get a robe.”
I walk toward the bedroom, feeling his eyes follow me. I open the stone cupboard and slip a bathrobe from its hanger.
I catch the sound of water. He must have turned the shower on. But when I turn, he’s back in the same spot, still watching me.
“I can’t do it, Em,” he says suddenly.
For a moment I think he means this charade. “Can’t do what, babe?”
“Can’t lose you. Can’t let you be that person who wants them but not me.” He says the words in a strange, singsong way, like they’re the lyrics of a song that’s been going around and around his brain so long they’ve lost any meaning.
“But I do want you, babe. No one else. Come on, I’ll show you.”
With a sudden gasping sob he buries his head in his hands and I seize my chance, dodging past him toward the stairs, the treacherous stairs where Emma died. I almost tumble on the top step, my heavy belly unbalancing me, but then I put a hand to the wall and manage to steady myself, my bare feet sure on the familiar slabs. With a roar of anger he lunges after me. Somehow he gets a hand into my hair and jerks me toward him. I fling the handful of pearls at his head. He barely flinches. But when he goes for the next step they’re under his feet, lethal as ball bearings, and his arms flail wildly as his legs skate off in different directions. Surprise and shock are written across his face and then he’s falling, falling into the void. His body hits the floor first, his head following with a sickening crack. Pearls patter down the stairs like a waterfall, tumbling over the side after him, bouncing around his twisted, spread-eagled body. There’s a moment when I’m sure he’s still alive because his eyes look up at me, anguished, searching me out, reluctant to let go, and then the blood seeps from the back of his head and his gaze goes dead.
NOW: JANE
