41
Marina heard the door, opened her eyes. Checked the clock. Blinking green numerals told her it was nearly half one. Phil coming home.
She hadn’t slept.
The call had come earlier. Marina had picked Josephina up from Eileen, brought her home. She had felt something strange about Eileen’s mood, a diffidence, a reserve. A fear, even. But hadn’t felt it was quite her place to ask if there was anything wrong.
So home after that, feeding the baby, playing with her, putting her to bed. Then starting on her report of the cellar. And that was when the phone had rung. Phil.
‘Listen,’ he had said, voice sounding remarkably like Eileen’s, ‘I’m going to be late.’
Marina didn’t know why, but she had expected this kind of call. Something to keep him out. Something to keep him away from her.
‘OK.’
She heard the hum of atmospherics coming down the phone line. A swirling silence between them.
‘There’s… there’s been a murder. Out at the Halstead Manor Hotel. Nasty one too.’
‘What happened?’
‘One of the guests. Carved up. Really badly. It’s… I’m there now.’
‘Right. So… what time will you be home?’
‘Late. I can’t see… ’ A sigh. ‘Late. This is a bad one.’
More atmospherics.
‘Well I’ll… will you have eaten?’
‘I’ll grab something on the way. Don’t worry. About me.’
Silence then, as she bit back what she wanted to say. The atmospherics, the swirling, came from her inside her own head this time.
‘OK.’ All she could manage.
More silence. The phone line. His and hers.
‘I’ll not wait up for you, then.’
‘Best not to.’
Silence. Rising to deafening.
‘OK. See you later,’ said Marina. ‘Or not.’
They said their goodbyes. Hung up on each other. Marina put the phone down, looked round the living room.
They were really starting to make it theirs. It had been painted, furniture moved in. Old stuff discarded, new stuff chosen together. No longer living out of boxes, they’d arranged and shelved their books and CDs, integrating them all together. Marina had joked that Phil would want everything placed alphabetically. He had laughed and replied no. Let’s arrange them as if they’re at a dinner party.
‘Put books together by writers we think would get on. Same with CDs. A kind of thematic consistency.’ He had smiled at her as he said the words, gently teasing, the kind of thing she would say to him.
And that was how they had arranged things. Spent the best part of a day doing it.
And at the end she had loved him even more.
But that was then. This was a new Phil. A closed, cold Phil. A keeper of secrets. A non-communicator. She wasn’t used to this. She was throwing herself out there, at him, and he was ignoring her. Pretending she wasn’t there. It unnerved her, unsettled her.
Scared her.
And now here he was, coming in.
She heard him climbing the stairs, quietly. Heard the door to Josephina’s room open, knew he was checking in on her. Then the door of their bedroom opened.
What to do? Pretend to be asleep, or talk to him?
She lay on her side, away from him, as she always did.
She heard him undressing, using the bathroom. Felt him get into bed next to her. Expected to feel his body up against her, arm round her waist, the way they always slept.
Felt nothing.
She wanted to move, turn to him, ask what was wrong, where he was.
But didn’t. Just stayed where she was. And she knew why. Not because she was scared of asking the question.
Just of hearing the answer.
So she lay there, awake. Pretending to be asleep. And knew that Phil was doing exactly the same.
And the night dragged on.
PART TWO
AUTUMN FALLS
42
Phil tried to move. Couldn’t.
Something round his neck restraining him, holding him back. His fingers went to it. Found cold, rusted metal. Sharp edges digging in. Tightly clamped, just enough space to breathe.
He tugged. Felt his throat constrict.
Put his hands behind his head, his neck, looking for something – anything – that could give him purchase. Found only rusted chain. Heard the clanking in his ears, the weight of it in his hands as he pulled. Pulled again.
Nothing. It wouldn’t budge.
His heart was hammering, chest beginning to ache. Like the other, more familiar metal band was wrapping itself round him, tightening, tightening…
He gasped, tried to hold down the pain, keep breathing…
Hands behind his head, he pulled the chain once more. Hard as he could. Felt nothing but the coldness of metal in his hands. Dead. Heavy. Unyielding. Felt his chest burning.
His eyes closed. Hot tears forming behind his eyelids.
Heard himself shout out:
No sound emerged. Shouting only in his head.
Nothing. Just his inner screams, inner pain.
He dropped the chain, opened his eyes. And saw what was before him.
And when he knew where he was, his heart thumped harder, chest ached fiercer.
He was in the cage. The cage of bones.
Screamed, at the top of his lungs.
Silent.
