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“Fine, go,” she says. “Walk away like you always do.”
“I’m not … I have a case to run, Romilly. I can’t—”
“Can’t what? Say how you feel?”
He turns quickly. “Trust you. Trust you again. After what you did.”
“Christ!” Romilly’s jaw juts out. She’s angry, her face red. “Yes, I made a mistake. Yes, it was my fault we split up. But before—”
“Before you fucked someone else?”
“Yes, before that! See, at least I can admit what I did. While you … you pretend that everything was fine. That we were happy and in love, when you’d been pulling away from me for months.”
He stares. “That’s not—”
“Yes, it is, Adam. The man I married was kind and open and … and he told me things. Shared how he was feeling. When he was upset, or worried, or … in pain. But you—” She points an accusatory finger at him. “You’re not him. This man here is arrogant, and stupid, and shags around and—” She stops, the fury blown out. “And is wasting his life,” she continues quietly. “You’ve put up a wall, and you think you’re fine, but you’re only living half a life, Adam. Please. I want my husband back. I want you.”
Adam shakes his head. He can’t do this. Not now.
He turns and walks quickly out of her house, slamming the door behind him. She’s wrong. She’s wrong, he thinks as he gets into his car. He’s fine. Yes, he doesn’t share his feelings all the time, as some people do, but that doesn’t mean he has problems. He let his guard down for her, and look what happened. He ended up alone. Same as his parents, all those years ago.
No. He is fine. He can live without her. He doesn’t love her. That’s over, he tells himself. He takes a cigarette out and lights it with shaking fingers. But still the pain in his chest won’t go away. An ache, from deep within his bones.
YOU HAVE SPOKEN to him. The time is right.
I must act fast.
I walk quickly; it’s cold out, there aren’t many people. Especially not here. Where the streetlight doesn’t reach the path, where shadows lurk in the trees. Nobody notices me. Like you, I am alone.
I reach the house; I walk around the side. The back gate is unlocked, the catch old and rusty. It opens without complaint. I push past the bins, the piles of glass recycling, neatly stacked. They are young, the people who live here, I can tell by their choices of wine. Cheap. Nasty. A taste that sticks in the mouth.
I stand to the side in the back garden. I can see someone in the kitchen, a woman, singing loudly to a song. She shouts out to the living room, voices call back. There are three people here, but I know I won’t be seen. I am never seen.
The woman pours large glasses of wine and carries them through. Laughing. Oblivious. She’s not beautiful, but lovely in her own way. I move forward, out of the shadows, and place one hand on the back door. It’s unlocked. Another sign. Safety in numbers, they probably think. How wrong they are.
I push the handle down and walk into the kitchen. Pots and plates lie on the side, dabs of sauce left on the stove. The music is louder here, happy and bright. It jars.
I pause in the hallway, listening. The chatter of three young women having the time of their lives. Laughter, joy. How I hate them. It makes me love you all the more. For your diffidence, for your maturity.
I leave the bright happy scene and walk carefully up the stairs. Floorboards creak but I won’t be heard. I know which bedroom is hers—from the light yesterday—and I head toward it.
I open the door. I let my eyes adjust to the dim. The bed is unmade and cheap gawdy clothes litter the floor. The smell of perfume hangs in the air. This is where I need to be. I have a look at the room, for the best place to hide. There is no space below the bed, and the wardrobe is stuffed full. I stand behind the door and wait. Still. Patient.
As I always was.
Fragments of memory cut in and out: from then. The smell of chipboard, new furniture, as I sit under the desk. Coming, ready or not—the shout, loud and joyful. I hold my breath, excitement almost making me giggle as I hear heavy footsteps. Then, your dark eyes, creased at the corners, laughing. Those were the happy times, the ones I miss.
Dreams remind me when I sleep: nightmares of being alone, discarded. Lost and abandoned, I walk on empty roads, frantically looking. I feel the grasping loneliness, the fear, the tension in my stomach—and when I wake my face is wet from tears.
I try not to think about them. The people I’ve killed. I know they deserved it, that they are the stooges of a system that fails to protect the innocent. That they were destined to die. But still. I hear their screams, their begging for mercy.
But now, it’s time.
Music turns off. Footsteps and laughter on the stairs. Exclamations of “good night” and “sleep well.” The door opens, the light switches on, dazzling me. But I wait, hidden behind the open door. She is humming under her breath; I watch as she flits in and out of view. She gets undressed, and I see her: young and taut, unmarked. My breathing gets faster. With my right hand I touch the knife in my pocket, the blade sharp, stinging as I run my fingertip along the edge. I pull it out and sure enough, bright red blood is blooming from a narrow cut. I put my finger in my mouth, still watching.
She takes her bra off, puts on a T-shirt for bed, then goes into the bathroom. The confidence, the ease of youth; I hate her with a fury that makes my teeth grind. I walk out of my hiding place, pushing the door closed with a click. There is a key in the lock and I turn it, pulling it out and putting it in my pocket.
We are alone now.
