‘I’ve already spoken to William. He’s taking Frances now. He’s going to show her something. Something awful. But she’ll forgive him. Because forgiveness is strength and Frances is not strong unless William is beside her. It’s what he likes best about her. And she’ll forgive you, too, in time. She’ll understand.’
Frances – Now
He’s driving too fast. My fingers dig into the car seat until the tips turn white. A car blasts its horn at us as we speed past, missing it by a whisper. The lanes are too narrow for this. I can’t look. I can’t look at the road, I can’t look at the hammer in his hand. Red and black and wound with tape. It makes my blood turn cold.
‘Slow down. You’re going to kill us,’ I whisper, pleading.
He looks at me and eases off the accelerator, but only a little. Good old William, the man who could be relied on to intuit a speed limit within a ten-mile radius, who never drove fast, not even when late for our honeymoon flight. What has happened to him? This man, my man, usually so composed and inanimate, is suddenly full of a fierce and frightening energy, kinetic with it, laying his hand on the horn as we narrowly miss a truck coming the other way, forcing it into the side of the hedge as we pass. I catch sight of the driver’s face, slack with shock, then it is gone.
‘You know why I started gambling, Frances?’
I shake my head. Our trivial little life together in Swindon feels like a lifetime ago.
‘You made me go to those meetings, didn’t you? Gamblers Anonymous. This man there told me I was addicted to the thrill of winning. A chemical in my brain shot like ejaculate when my numbers came up. I don’t know how I didn’t laugh in his face. It wasn’t the thrill, the winning or losing. I wasn’t like the other hopeless sad sacks in there craving their little dopamine release. I liked the control.’
I jerk forward as he suddenly slows down, the back of the car fishtailing a little. Speed camera. I press my hand against the glass of the window. I wonder if they see me.
‘You ever see someone lose control, baby? I mean, you know, really lose it? I have. Only once. It was horrifying and beautiful and I’ve never quite got it out of my mind. Imagine – you’re stepping backward into an empty lift shaft. You descend into blackness and above you, the light of the doorway you came through is falling away from you faster and faster. You know the impact is going to break all your bones and that light is dropping away to nothing. That’s what it looked like. In her eyes. The light of sanity, falling away.’
He’s forced to slow down again as we approach town. I recognise the garage coming up on our right and remember that a little further up ahead there is a set of traffic lights. If they’re red, I tell myself, I’m going to jump from the car and start running. I think of the Russian girl with the kisses like snow. He can chase me, and he might catch me, but if he’s going to beat me with that hammer he’s going to have to do it right here on the street. My hand reaches for the handle. I’m sweating enough to make my palms slippery. There’s the lights up ahead. They’re green. Green is fine. They can still change. I need to keep him talking.
‘You’re the most in-control person I know,’ I say, knowing as soon as I say it it’s the wrong thing. He wanted me to ask who he was talking about. Who she was. I have a feeling I already know.
‘Of course I am,’ he replies. ‘I cultivate it day after day after day. You don’t know what it’s like to feel like that all the time. Like you can’t let go because if you do, you’ll fall apart. It’s a state of constant vigilance and it’s fucking exhausting. You want to know why I did what I did with Kim? Control. You want to know why I won’t turn that box room into a nursery? Control.’
The lights are still green. There are five cars ahead of us, there’s still time, there’s still time. I stare as if I could will them to change colour with my mind. My hand is so tight on the handle I think it will come off. Then I remember. Seat belt! My other hand, the free one, moves slowly down to the latch that will free it at the last second when I wrench the door open. The lights suddenly switch to amber. I hold my breath.
‘It’s an illusion, control,’ he says, moving the hammer to his other hand so he can switch on the indicator. ‘My dad knew it. Even as his car filled up with water.’
Just as we reach the lights he speeds up, pushing the car over the line just as they turn to red. I sit in shock, eyes wide, heart pounding, my hand still on the door handle, the other still wrapped around the buckle of my seat belt. I missed it. I missed my chance. William looks at me and I am shocked by what I see in his face, the blankness in his eyes. It’s like he doesn’t know who I am. He licks his lips and indicates again, turning off the main road down a side street of terraced houses. I suddenly know where we are going, even before I see the spire of St Mary de Castro over the rooftops.
‘William,’ I say, trying to sound composed, and failing, ‘please, pull over. We can talk. About anything you want.’
‘Thing is, Frances, you – you’re a case
