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CHAPTER 29
CONNIE
I’m obsessed with her house. Each time I walk the neighbours’ dogs around the village, I promise myself I won’t go anywhere near it because it kills me knowing she’s not inside. She’d be either glued to something inane but familiar on the television or recalling an anecdote I’d heard a dozen times before about a party she’d once been to in Monaco where she’d met Princess Margaret. Or the time Bill and a group of friends with posh names like Binky and Bunny and the like chartered a yacht and they sailed around Capri. How much of it is true, I’ll never really know. However, my promise lasts as long as my daily vow to stop smoking. So here I am again, standing in the fields behind the home that I should now be living in, lighting up a cigarette and imagining how different our lives could’ve been had Paul not destroyed them.
The estate agent has replaced the For Sale sign that I tore down in my fit of temper. But I’m not surprised that it’s still on the market as it’s hugely overpriced. Paul’s being greedy if he expects someone to pay that for a few trimmed hedges and a lick of fresh paint.
If I’m not viewing it on the Rightmove app, swiping from right to left, walking myself through each room, one by one, then I’m glaring at the house in person. I must be feeling particularly self-destructive today because this time, I open her side gate and step inside her back garden. I pause to reflect on how, not so long ago, I daydreamed about spending evenings like this drinking wine against the backdrop of colourful late-summer sunsets, perhaps with a dog of my own by my side or a partner to share it all with. I didn’t want much, I just wantedsomething.
I move towards the fire pit he dug out. Scattered across the metallic base are blackened pieces of paper. I can’t see the remains of any wood or coal, which suggests he wasn’t using this to keep warm, just as a means to burn her stuff.
That’s what he does, he destroys things. Possessions. People. Lives.
As I reach the house, out of habit, I turn the handle to the back door. Only this time, instead of remaining firmly locked, it opens. I hesitate. Instead of going inside, I edge along the side of the house and peer through a gap in the fence first. I half expect to see Paul’s van on the driveway but it’s not there. Either the estate agent has forgotten to lock the door after showing a prospective buyer around, or at some point, Paul has returned here without anyone spotting him.
I should leave right now. That would be the sensible thing to do. So why can’t I? Instead, tentatively, I enter for the first time since the morning I said goodbye to her. The first thing that strikes me is the kitchen. There’s no longer any pots, pans, cutlery or crockery. The hallway is also sparse, and the lounge has been pared back. Photos on the walls have been replaced with generic Ikea-style prints. There is very little furniture and most of the ornaments and trinkets that decorated the dining room sideboard havedisappeared, with the exception of the ugly, tall porcelain cat. That thing remains.
I return to the hall and catch sight of the radiator. The air is forced out of my chest. This is where she hit her head when she fell. I crouch to examine the area more closely. There are no traces of blood from her head wound. The patterned carpet that likely absorbed it has been replaced with a plain one and the radiator has been given a fresh lick of white gloss paint. It’s as if she neither lived nor died here.
The upstairs bathroom, second bedroom and box room are all empty. But when I reach her bedroom, something stops me from moving inside it. Instead, I remain at the doorway, recalling the last moments I spent here with her, by her side as she slept. I can see her now, waking and trying to assure me that everything was going to be okay. ‘It always is in the end,’ she said. Now, her words haunt me. Did she know that was the moment our journey together was at an end? Because if I’m being completely honest with myself, a small part of me thinks that subconsciouslyImight have.
I draw in a deep breath and, hidden between the lingering odours of sanded floorboards and paint, I can just about locate notes from her favourite rose-scented perfume. If I could remember the name she wore I’d buy a bottle to spray it around the bungalow whenever I need to feel close to her. But Paul has thrown everything out.
The external padlock he affixed to her bedroom door has gone too, I note. I rub my fingertips across the paintwork and feel four ever-so-slightly raised bumps where Paul has filled in the screw holes. Then I move inside the room and open the wardrobe doors, recalling the last time I did this and the shock of finding Paul’s clothes in there. This time it’s vacant.
A cold, sudden shiver runs through me. It’s the close proximity of breath on my ear as much as the voice that comes with it that makes me scream.
‘Welcome home, Connie,’ says Paul.
CHAPTER 30
CONNIE
I turn on my heel to face him, then take a quick step backwards, eyeing him up and down. He looks different, but the same, if that makes sense. A more refined version of himself, almost. His rough edges have been smoothed out. He’s wearing dark blue fitted jeans with a black leather Gucci belt, a T-shirt with a small logo I don’t recognise and a suit jacket. His cropped hair now has a side parting, and resting on his ears are black-rimmed glasses. Either his tanned skin is making his teeth appear brighter or he’s had them whitened. This is where her money has gone. He’s used it to reinvent himself.
‘You know you’re trespassing, don’t you?’ he asks.
‘And you know you’re a murderer, don’t you?’ I respond. ‘You killed my mum.’
‘Only if you mean I killed her with kindness.’
‘What happened the night she died?’
‘I’m sure you’ve already been told.’
‘I want to hear it from you.’
He sighs, as if recounting the story is delaying him from doing something more valuable with his time. ‘At some point in the night, my wife—’
‘Don’t call her that.’
‘My wifegot out of bed, lost her bearings and her footing, then fell down the stairs. She hit her head on the radiator valve and ... well ... you know the rest. It was quite tragic, really.’
‘You didn’t call for an ambulance until the morning. So where were you?’
‘In the spare room. Asleep.’
‘Why?’
