He’s furious with her. Loathes her. Feels betrayed in a way that makes him want to shed his own skin. Slither out of it like a snake. Cast aside who he is and start again. That particular thought winds him. Was that what she felt every time she left their house? Did she shed them?
Fiona is at the supermarket. Mark has noticed that when the three of them are alone together, the house descends into a fog of recriminations; spiky anger – or maybe fear – stains the atmosphere. Largely, they all hide out in separate rooms. So Mark is surprised when Oli strides into the kitchen, goes directly to the fridge, opens it, peruses the contents, takes out a plastic bottle of milk and starts to drink.
‘Get a glass,’ says his father. Oli tuts, rolls his eyes but does reach for a glass.
‘I think Seb is crying,’ says Oli. ‘He just can’t comprehend how Mum might leave him like this.’
‘No.’ Mark knows he needs to go and comfort his youngest. Try to stop the baffled, hurt tears but he’s hesitant. What can he say? He heaves himself off the breakfast stool.
Oli looks pleased that his dad has broken through his inertia and is going to do some parenting. He wants to try to gee him up. He fishes his phone out of his back pocket. ‘Look at this meme, Dad.’
Mark almost bats away his son’s phone, he’s not interested – Leigh was always better at feigning attention to mindless memes – but he digs deep to find some level of patience. If it matters to Oli, he should try to pay attention.
Mark doesn’t understand what he’s looking at. There is a man walking around his house, muttering about being all prepped for lockdown. He has a six-pack of beers tucked under one arm, the remote control in his other hand. He opens cupboards and shows piles of loo rolls and packets of dried pasta, neatly stacked. He nods, approving of his own planning. Then he opens the door to his understairs cupboard, there is a full wine rack and his wife. She is bound and gagged. Struggling to escape. The man on the video says, ‘Yup, all ready for lockdown.’ He nonchalantly selects a bottle of wine from the rack and closes the door on his wife, trapping her in the dark cupboard.
‘What the fuck, Oli!’ yells Mark.
Oli looks startled. His father doesn’t usually swear at him. ‘Funny, right?’ he says, but there’s no certainty in his voice, or stance, or eyes. Oli seems to understand his mistake now. He turns red and starts to walk hurriedly out of the kitchen.
‘No, that’s not bloody funny. Do not show that to your brother, do you understand? Do not show that to anyone. Do you hear me?’
Oli doesn’t reply but Mark hears his bedroom door slam. The rage surges through his body. It has nowhere to go. It isn’t Oli’s fault. Mark shouldn’t have shouted at him. This is all her fault. But she’s not here. Not stood in front of him. That’s the problem.
Mark looks under the kitchen sink and grabs the roll of black bin bags. He bounds up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The house seems to shake. Anger is charging around his body like a highly combustible fuel. He might explode. He opens her wardrobe door and starts to wrench her clothes off their hangers and shove them into the sacks. Dresses, tops, jeans tumble into the binbags and settle like twisted limbs in a mass grave. The process isn’t fast enough for him, he stops wasting time and throws garments into the sacks with the hangers too. He tries not to remember when he last saw her wearing each piece, he refuses to recall how she filled her clothes, sometimes twirled in front of him, happy with her look, or on other occasions groaned she had nothing to wear. The gap that opens up in the wardrobe is satisfying. He wants rid of her. All traces of her. The sack fills up quickly, he grabs a fresh one. Then a third. Everything must go. He wants to wipe her out. He yanks open the drawers where she keeps her underwear and starts to push her pants, socks, bras into the sacks too. Carefully coiled belts, folded scarves and even make-up are tossed away. These things are part of her sham, part of her deception.
‘What are you doing, Dad?’ Mark jumps as though he’s been scalded. He turns to see Seb staring at him, wide-eyed, scared.
‘Just having a clear-out.’
‘Of Mum’s things?’
‘Yes. I’m taking them to the charity shop. She doesn’t need them.’
Seb looks like he wants to cry again. ‘She might need them, when she comes back.’
‘She’s not coming back,’ says Mark. He turns away from his son, because he can’t bear his expression. The pain he radiates punches Mark over and over again in the stomach, the head. He wishes he’d never brought Leigh into their world. He can’t bear the fact his boys are going to lose two mothers. ‘There is some ice cream in the fridge. Why don’t you go and get some? I’ll be down in a moment. I’m nearly done here.’
Seb glares at him but leaves the room.
Mark always had more space in his wardrobe and as a consequence she stored her wedding dress there. It is not enough to throw that out, donate it to charity. He snatches at the pretty floaty fabric. It’s easy for him to put his big hands on it and rent it apart. Each tear, rip, slash, slakes his thirst for obliteration. Only when the dress is in tatters does his breathing start to slow. Her clothes are now nothing more than chaotic snarls of
