kettle – doing what? Making tea for himself? He was so fucking calm that he was happily making tea, as if this was a normal Thursday for him. She flexed each muscle, checked it was working, wouldn’t let her down. Then she linked her hands into the iron bed head to brace herself, lifted her right knee up to her chin and kicked. The glass broke instantly, falling outwards, tinkling on to the balcony. The cross brace above it needed a second thump. It splintered, taking the pane above with it. Another kick and the final pane toppled outwards from the frame. The hole was almost three foot deep.
Kelvin’s footsteps were in the hallway; she heard him on the stairs, bellowing, ‘
Good. Coming upstairs would cost him more time. With the sleeve of her sweater pulled down over her hand, she punched out the remaining slivers of glass and pushed her feet through. Then her hips. She heard Kelvin in the room, shouting and swearing, but she was gone, over the railings of the balcony, slithering down until she was dangling underneath it.
‘Do it,’ she hissed, looking at the ground, which seemed a million miles from her feet. ‘Do it.’
Through the broken window she saw him appear in the doorway, his face contorted with rage. She let go of the railings and dropped. She landed on the weed-cracked concrete, her ankle twisting painfully under her. She stumbled, her knees making awful cracking noises as they hit the ground. But she was OK. She pushed herself up and ran. Kelvin was yelling somewhere inside the house, throwing furniture around in his fury. She pictured a shotgun being chambered as she flung herself into the trees, heading aimlessly into the forest.
The trees didn’t quite have their full summer growth on them, and she could see a long way ahead. She could see the zigzaggy green splash of lawns. Maybe the edge of the estate that neighboured Goldrab’s. She pushed her wobbly legs on, breathing through her swollen mouth, crashing through dead wood and leaves, waxy green carpets of wild garlic in the corners of her eyes. Eventually the wood gave out to a sweep of grass so clipped and green it could have been a golf course. Beyond it she saw a pale Cotswold chippings driveway and a spectacular stone mansion basking in the sun, with turrets and stone urns on the parapets. A Land Rover stood in the driveway. She ran to it and tugged at the doors – locked – continued, breathing hard now, past another car, past cold frames and a walled garden where white peonies and early roses grew, each neatly labelled. The front door had a huge old knocker – a Jacob Marley – and she hammered on it, the noise echoing through the house and out across the grounds. She glanced anxiously over her shoulder up the lawn. There was no sign of Kelvin in the trees.
‘Hello?’ She opened the letterbox and yelled through it. ‘Anyone home?’
No answer. She limped along the front of the house, catching sight of tasselled curtains inside the leaded windows, her reflection moving across them – hair all over the place, her nose swollen to twice its normal size. She rounded the corner and made her way past dustbins, a pile of sawn logs, two cans of oil. She hammered on the back door, put her hand up to shade her eyes and peered through the windows. She saw an elegant painted kitchen, a central island, an Aga. No lights or sound. She went back to the corner of the house, and as she did she saw him. Just a blur in the trees, his red and black shirt a patch of moving colour – running down to the lawn with his arms out at his sides. She turned and began to head towards the front of the house, to the driveway that led to the road. Immediately she saw her mistake – she’d be in the open on the driveway. She hesitated. There was a wheelie bin next to one of the dustbins. She opened it and looked inside. It was almost empty – just one tied carrier bag of rubbish at the bottom – and it was solidly placed against the wall. It didn’t move as she swung in one leg, then the other, landing in the bottom, reaching above her head to pull the lid closed.
It was dark and warm in the bin. She couldn’t hear anything outside, just the hot percussive in and out of her own panting bouncing off the plastic walls. She wiped the sweat off her forehead and carefully lifted the carrier bag to her knees, silently using her fingernails to slit a hole in the plastic. Inside were the remains of a kid’s packed lunch – a couple of squashed drinks packets, a screwed-up ball of silver foil with crumbs on it, a wad of napkins printed with blue dinosaurs – and three baked-beans cans. She pulled the lid out of one of the cans and put it between her knees, crushing with all her might until it folded into two. Then she reversed it and folded it again. She did it three times before it split along the folded edge. She held it against her fingertip – sharp. It would work if she got the right angle.
Footsteps sounded on the gravel. Kelvin. She held her breath, raised the tin lid in both hands above her head. He went past getting so close she could hear his breathing, a raspy, deep-barrelled noise. He wasn’t fit in spite of his job and his army background: the drink and the cigarettes had taken their toll. She could have outrun him, could have got to the road if she’d just had the confidence. She heard him go round the house twice, circling like a buzzard, passing so close to the bin she felt his clothing brush it. Then his footsteps disappeared towards the road.
After a long time she dared to look out. The long, sun-baked drive led to two stone newels, the gates standing wide open. She was just in time to see him exit and stand in the lane, looking up, then back down the hill. He hesitated, then turned and began to walk in the direction of his cottage.
When she was sure he had gone, she clambered out of the bin. She stood for a moment, unpicking the wad of dinosaur napkins, then carefully cleaned out the inside of a second beans can. She rinsed it under the garden tap, dried it with the napkins, pulled the knotted condom out of her pocket and dropped it in. She secured it by wadding a couple of napkins on top. Then she rinsed her hands again, splashed some cold water on her face, and began to hobble down the driveway towards the road. It was early afternoon. The sun had just begun its long descent from the top of the sky.
33
Sally sat at the open kitchen window, an untouched cup of coffee at her elbow, and stared out across the fields. The Caterpillar opposite Hanging Hill had its new leaves on, and the outline it cast against the midday sky was thick. One day it had been a line of skeletons, stretching their hands to the sky, and the next they’d fattened into trees. Just like that, summer was on its way.
She picked up the phone and looked at it. No messages, no texts. Steve had already gone to the gate for his flight home. She unfolded the wet wipes, now dry, and flattened them on the table, tracing her fingers across the words.
There was a way of dealing with this. There was. She just couldn’t see it yet.
The doorbell rang and she sat bolt upright. She hadn’t heard a car. There definitely hadn’t been a car. Hurriedly she folded the tissues, went to the window and leaned out. Standing on the porch with her back to the window was a woman, filthy dirty and dressed in torn jeans, hair straggling down her back.
‘Hello?’
The woman turned, looked back at her without a word. Her face was bruised, her nose swollen; there was dried blood in her hair and on her face. Her eyes were dead black holes.
‘
She shovelled the wipes into a drawer, slammed it closed, went into the hallway and unlocked the door. Zoe stood with one arm against the wall, her shoulders sagging, her head drooping. She gazed at Sally as if she was looking at her across a great, shattered expanse of desert. As if she’d found herself in a world so terrible that no one, no one, could ever adequately describe it.
She tried to smile. A twitch at the corner of her mouth. ‘People keep telling me I should ask when I need help.’
Sally was silent for a moment. Then she stepped on to the porch and put her arms around her sister. Zoe stood there stiffly. She was shivering.
‘Give me a bath, Sally. And something to drink. Will you? That’s all. I need a little money to get home, but I’ll pay it back.’
Sally shook her head. She held Zoe out at arm’s length, studying her in the sunlight. Her nose was a bloodied ball. There were rivulets of blood running down her chin and her lips were swollen. She couldn’t meet Sally’s eyes.
‘Please don’t ask. Please. Just the bath.’
‘Come on.’
