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He arrives back later and she stops abruptly, trying to tidy away some of the mess she’s made. While he showers, she grabs his regular phone and turns on Find My iPhone to track him. She’ll have to do it every morning, because she is travelling backwards in time, but so be it. She will do whatever it takes.
It’s five to eight in the evening. Kelly and Jen haven’t eaten yet. Jen is biding her time, waiting to confront Kelly about – well, everything, really. She’s just working out what to start with.
Todd is upstairs, on his Xbox. Jen can hear the noises of his games playing out like thunder and lightning above them.
‘Do you ever think he’s getting a bit – insular?’ Jen says. She’s sitting on one of the bar stools while Kelly leans his elbows on the kitchen counter, looking at her.
‘Nah, no way,’ he says. ‘I was the same at his age.’
‘Computer games?’
‘Well – you know. I hate to break it to you, but he will be on porn sites.’ Kelly raises his hands, palms to Jen. It’s so easy. How is it so easy to interact with him in this way, their shared humour that they’ve always had? In the café, back on that first date, Kelly had been so quiet, so guarded, but by the end of the evening he had laughed her into bed.
‘What – while the war rages on in Call of Duty?’
‘Of course. Headphones in for the porn. Call of Duty on as a decoy.’ He gets up and turns to the cupboards, opening and closing them listlessly. ‘We have no food.’
‘I’ve just lost my appetite.’
‘Oh, stop. It’s perfectly natural, Jennifer.’
‘What, watching women with fake tits have fake orgasms?’
‘It taught me well.’ Kelly turns and raises an eyebrow at her and, despite, despite, despite everything, Jen feels her stomach burn. That dark little look, just for her. He’s been a good husband, or so she had thought. Not exactly ambitious, somewhat unfulfilled at times, but interesting, layered, sexy. Isn’t that what she always wanted?
‘I could go for a curry,’ he adds, evidently thinking about food as she is deconstructing their marriage in her mind.
She hears a phone vibrate. The kind of noise she would usually tune out, it’s so ubiquitous in their house. Kelly unconsciously puts his hand to his front pocket but, as he turns, she sees that his iPhone is in his back pocket. She watches him closely. Two phones. Both on his body. She never would have noticed. Why would she? The burner phone is small, like a pebble. He wears his jeans loose, low slung, always has.
Jen draws her head back in a reverse nod, appraising him. ‘Sure,’ she says. The Indian takeaway is a restaurant three streets up from theirs. They love it, even though it is expensive (perhaps because). It is entirely made of wooden cladding, like something from Center Parcs, and is beautifully lit. Jen and Kelly say they can never eat in there because the waiters have seen them pick up takeaway in loungewear (pyjamas) so often.
‘I’ll go,’ he says.
Yes, this is right, isn’t it? He went out, came home carrying joyous scented bags of Indian food. Had he been back later than she’d expected? She doesn’t think so. God, not everything is a fucking clue, is it?
‘I’ll come.’
‘Nah. I’ll go. You relax. Watch some porn,’ he throws over his shoulder as he leaves. She can hear him laughing as he opens the front door. As though nothing whatsoever is amiss.
He’s either taking a call or meeting someone. That’s what Jen concludes. And so, right after he’s left, she heads to the picture window to watch him go. She leaves the light off. She stands there, invisible, just watching him walk.
Several houses down, somebody is waiting. Kelly raises a hand to him. Jen shifts so she can still watch them, so close to the window that her breath mists it up. She squints, trying to work out who it is.
The sun has only recently set. Jen is much closer to summertime than she was yesterday. The sky is still silvery behind the black, shadowy houses. It helps to illuminate them. Jen sees Kelly clasp the man on the shoulder. The kind of gesture a teacher might make. A mentor, a therapist.
Or a very old friend.
In an almost-perfect echo of the night this all started, they turn around, and Jen sees that the person being greeted by Kelly is Joseph.
They walk a couple of metres down the road, then Joseph says something. They stop, and a small bag passes from Joseph to Kelly, brown, about the size of Kelly’s palm. He doesn’t open it or look at its contents. He puts it in the pocket of his jeans, touches Joseph’s shoulder again, then raises a hand behind him as he leaves. Joseph heads back, past their house. Jen shrinks to the side to remain unseen. Joseph’s eyes look up to the windows as he passes.
Todd emerges from his room just as Jen is thinking it through: so all that talk about no food, that was groundwork being laid, as carefully as an architect. Kelly was waiting for that phone to buzz, to signal Joseph’s arrival. How sinister it is to relive your life backwards. To see things you hadn’t at the time. To realize the horrible significance of events you had no idea were playing out around you. To uncover lies told by your husband. Jen would always have said Kelly was as straight as they come. But don’t all good liars seem that way?
‘Any danger of some food around here, or do I have to call social services?’ Todd says, coming up behind her.
‘Do you know who that is?’ Jen says, pointing down to the street. This is surely better, actually, than asking Kelly. Todd is less connected to Joseph than she first thought, and is almost two months from killing him. And so maybe he won’t lie.
Todd squints. ‘That’s Clio’s uncle’s mate’s car.’
