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‘There’s a knife in my bag,’ I said.
‘What?’ Eyes still glued to screen.
‘There’s a knife. In my bag.’
‘A knife in your bag how?’ He swiped his forefinger across the screen. Still he didn’t look at me.
‘In my bag,’ I said. ‘There’s a knife in my bag. I think it’s yours.’
His brow furrowed, but I couldn’t tell if it was in response to me or something he’d read. The lack of reaction made me wonder whether I’d spoken out loud, whether I’d imagined seeing the knife. Between the hot flushes and the fugues and the nightmares and the rages, I wasn’t myself – I knew that much.
I stepped back and peered into the bag. The knife was still there. It looked peaceful, as if it were sleeping.
‘Mark,’ I said, louder this time. ‘Will you listen to me? Your hunting knife’s in my bag.’
Finally he looked up, not quite at me, and his eyes were screwed up in a cynical expression. ‘Myhuntingknife? Since when did I go hunting? What’re you on about?’
‘It’s your knife. From Spain. The one you bought as a souvenir but we realised afterwards how sharp it was? Look, I might be menopausal, but I’m not mental. That knife you bought on holiday the year before last. The fancy one with the blade that pops out when you push the little button.’
Still he didn’t move from his chair. More than half an eye on the iPad, he said, ‘Did you read about this girl getting attacked Saturday night near the town hall?’
‘Mark,’ I said. ‘Mark, didn’t you hear me? The hunting knife from Spain. What’s it doing in my bag?’
He moved. Stood. Took a step towards me. Like an ocean liner inching out of a harbour or a glacier creeping down a hill, you needed time-lapse photography to see the progress. ‘A knife?’
‘Look.’
He dragged his limbs over to where I was standing and peered at the knife, lifted it carefully out by the handle. Can’t rush these things. ‘Mine, you say?’
‘It’s that one you bought in Spain. Don’t you recognise it?’
He was inspecting it as if he’d never seen it before, turning it in his hands like he was on thatCSIshow. He’s not the most observant, Mark. Not with material things. Wouldn’t recognise our crockery in a line-up, and you could give him another man’s shirt to wear and he’d never know. When Kieron was at home, Mark would only realise he had the wrong trousers once he couldn’t get them past his knees, and even then he’d swear blind they’d shrunk in the wash.
‘Don’t you remember?’ I prompted. ‘Malaga, the year before last.’ Christ, it was like playing charades, except you’re allowed to speak plain English and still no one can guess what you mean. I wouldn’t mind, but we’ve only been abroad once. ‘Don’t you remember buying it in that little tourist shop? It had a brown leather sheath with beige patterns on, wherever that is. You had to pack it in your hold luggage because of airport checks. No? Don’t you remember you cut yourself within seconds of buying it? You didn’t even notice until your hand started gushing.’
He opened his hand and stared at it as if he expected to find it bleeding all over again. Light appeared to dawn. His mouth opened. His brow furrowed. ‘What’s it doing in your bag?’
‘Oh my God, that’s what I’ve been saying for the past half hour, love. That’s what I’m asking you. What’s your hunting knife doing in my bag?’
‘How should I know? What are you getting all het up about?’
I took a moment, made myself breathe.
‘I’m not getting het up,’ I said with as much calm as I could muster. ‘I’m just asking.’ Honest to God. Marriage is a spiral into madness sometimes. It’s likeAlice in Wonderland, except with a lot more chores.
I took the knife out and pressed the button on the side. The blade flicked out, flashed under the kitchen lights. It was clean. Why wouldn’t it be clean? I thought. What had I expected?
I didn’t say any of this out loud. I felt Jo’s shoulder against the palm of my hand, remembered my urge to shove her, push her face under the water. A knife tip pressed against skin. Breakthrough. The warm plunge into bloody insides. My chest tightened, as if someone had put a weight on it. I was getting hotter. I think I was scared, somewhere deep down, that I might have done something very bad.
‘We keep it in the garage,’ I said. ‘In the old chest of drawers.’
‘Did you lock the garage?’ He meant the door that leads out from our kitchen.
‘Why the hell would I lock the garage? What kind of weird question is that? I never go in there.’
And then I remembered that I’d been into the garage to fetch dog food the day before yesterday. I remembered seeing the knife in a drawer but I couldn’t remember why I was looking in that drawer or whether I had taken the knife out. But it had definitely had its leather sleeve on it then. So where was that now?
‘The case is here.’ Mark was standing by the open cutlery drawer, the ornate leather sheath in his hand. ‘Are you sure you didn’t bring it in from the garage, use it for something?’
