The Other Half Lives aka The Dead Lie Down

‘She had my picture. He gave her my picture.’

I force my eyes open, aware that what I’ve just heard is an admission.

‘I’m afraid I forgot all about you when I saw it,’ says Mary. ‘You and her, I mean-the history. I remembered too late, once she was already dead, that she ought to have suffered, ideally, instead of dying straight away. You’d have preferred her to suffer, wouldn’t you?’

There are some punishments no one should have to endure, not even Gemma Crowther. Death. Torture. No one deserves those things. No one has the right to mete them out.

‘No?’ Mary sounds irritated. Her face is a blur; I can’t see her properly any more. ‘In that case, you’ll be relieved to hear that she didn’t feel a thing.’ She giggles, high-pitched, like a little girl. ‘I did my best for you, anyway,’ she says. ‘Or, rather, I gave Aidan instructions and saw to it that he complied. He’s the framer, not me.’ She laughs, a low, raw noise from deep in her throat. ‘There’s nothing wrong with wanting and taking revenge. It’s the most natural thing in the world. Do you know what Cecily said? She and Martha had a huge row on the way home from Aidan’s private view, after Cecily had bought one of the paintings. Not that she got to keep it for long. It met with an unfortunate accident. Before Martha worked out how she was going to put a stop to Aidan’s success, she told Cecily she wanted him to fail. She wanted none of his pictures to sell, not a single one. She wanted him to fail more than she wanted to succeed herself. That’s the question the journalist from The Times should have asked, not life or work. Your own success or someone else’s failure. ’ In the short silence between ‘Survivor’ finishing and starting again, I hear the faint crackle of Mary’s cigarette as she inhales.

‘Cecily quoted some famous writer or other who’d said that writing well was the best revenge. “You’ve got your writing, Martha. Aidan’s talent doesn’t threaten yours. You don’t need him or his failure to prop you up. You can succeed without him.” That’s what she said. Have you ever heard anything so stupid? Writing well, the best revenge? What a load of shit! Is it a better revenge than killing someone, or fire-bombing their house? I don’t think so.’

Eighteen empty frames. Aidan made frames for the paintings he’d lost, the ones Mary destroyed. Why won’t she admit it?

‘I know why,’ I tell her.

‘What? You know why what?’ I can feel her face close to mine, her breathing. I twist my mouth into a smile. I want to hurt her.

I can only say it in my head, not out loud. I can tell the story to myself. Mary’s painting might have been a way to get revenge on Aidan at first, to prove she could beat him at his own game, but it came to mean more to her than that. She was good at it-not just good; brilliant. It gave her something she recognised, even in her misery, as being valuable. After a while-maybe months, maybe years-cutting up painting after painting of Aidan and adding it to the pile wasn’t enough for her. She could see she was getting better. Painting wasn’t Aidan’s talent any more, it was hers. She stopped feeling as if she was attacking Aidan when she carved a canvas to pieces with a knife, or hacked at it with a pair of scissors; she was attacking herself, her own work. She didn’t want to do that any more. Something had to change.

She started to paint other pictures that weren’t of Aidan, ones she kept. The ones I saw in her house, of the family who used to live on her estate, and the Abberton series. Those might not have been of Aidan, but they were about him. About what she did to him. They mattered to her. They were the story of her life.

‘You… got scared.’ I stop, try to fill my lungs with the air I need to carry on. ‘You understood…’ I want to tell her I know how she felt.

‘What? What did I understand?’ She shakes me, and I let out a howl of pain. My body throws out a last spurt of energy to fight it. I use it to get more words out. ‘You understood… how it would feel to have your pictures… destroyed. The worst thing… what you’d done to Aidan. You felt guilty.’ That’s why you won’t admit it. The guilt, once you felt the full horror of what you’d done, was more than you could bear.

‘I don’t believe in guilt,’ says Mary quickly. ‘My therapist said it was an unproductive emotion.’

I see how it must have happened: her guilt and shame transmuted into paranoia, that Aidan would find out about her-where she was living, what she was doing. That he’d do to her what she’d done to him. She couldn’t risk it. The only way to make sure it never happened was never to sell any of her paintings, to maintain absolute control. She was terrified of what Aidan might do to her, of the punishment she felt, deep down, that she deserved from him. At the same time, she couldn’t resist the impulse to close in on him, once she knew where he was-to infiltrate his life, lurk on the edges of it, where he might just notice her.

She took her paintings to Saul to be framed, knowing Aidan had worked for Saul, that Saul had bought a picture from Aidan’s exhibition. Mary had to have whatever had been Aidan’s, including Saul’s support.

You’re not a shrink.

I could be. Easily. I don’t believe I’d need any training whatsoever. All I’d need is experience, which I’ve got, and a brain, which I’ve got.

I know I’m right. Mary set out to steal Aidan’s life as a punishment, because she believed he’d stolen Martha’s. She moved to the same town, lived in his old house, did the work he used to do, mixed with people who had been his, like Saul-all without him realising. It was about proximity as much as punishment; she wanted to be close to him. Her plan worked perfectly, until I ruined it, until Saul sent me to Aidan to ask for work. That was when the past and the present crashed into one another. She must have known they would, eventually.

What was supposed to happen? I want to ask her how she imagined her and Aidan’s story would end, before I came along and disrupted her plans, but my tongue has sunk to the floor of my mouth like a lead weight. Something else has changed, too. The song has stopped: ‘Survivor’. Stopped for good. It’s still playing inside me, the lyrics and music imprinted on the dark walls of my mind, like gold letters left on the night by sparklers.

How can it have stopped? Mary hasn’t left the room. She doesn’t seem to notice the silence.

‘Stand up slowly and raise your hands above your head.’

Stand? I can’t move at all. Then I realise it was a man’s voice I heard, not Mary’s. He was talking to her.

Help. He’s going to help me.

I drag my eyes open and at first see nothing but Mary’s hair spread across her back. She’s turned away from me. Then she growls and lunges and I see him crouched down in the corner of the room. He’s got the gun. He knocks Mary to the ground.

Waterhouse. DC Waterhouse. He speaks to me without taking his eyes off Mary. ‘It’s all right, Ruth. There’s an ambulance on the way. You’re going to be fine. Just hold on.’

Mary crawls across the room like a spider, grabs the hammer that’s lying near Aidan. I blink at Waterhouse, my eyes watering until I can hardly see.

‘What are you planning to do with that hammer, Mary?’ He sounds calm. I like hearing his voice. ‘Put it down.’

‘No.’

‘If you try to use it on anybody, I’ll shoot. Without hestitation. ’

A few seconds later I hear a crunch of bone. All I can see is greyness.

‘There. I used it on myself, and you haven’t shot me. You were lying. Shall I carry on? I’ve got nine other fingers: Abberton, Blandford, Darville, Elstow, Goundry, Heathcote, Margerison, Rodwell, Windus.’ She giggles hysterically.

‘Try to accept that it’s over, Mary,’ says Waterhouse.

I hear footsteps, too heavy to be Mary’s, then her voice. ‘I wouldn’t bother. If he’s got a pulse now, he won’t have for long.’

My mind clears in a flash. Why did she say that? She told me Aidan was dead. Was she lying?

I wait for Waterhouse to say the words I’m desperate to hear, but he says nothing, and I’m too weak to ask.

If he’s alive, then he’s about to die. Mary thinks he’ll die. This might be my last chance.

I don’t blame you for not trusting me, Aidan. I don’t deserve your trust.

If I pretend he and I are the only people left in the world and force my words into his mind, maybe he’ll hear me.

In London, when you told me about Mary Trelease, I didn’t say what you needed to hear. I didn’t say I loved you no matter what, even though you’d said it to me. And then the next day, when I told you I’d seen