‘I suppose it must have finally got to her. The deceit and everything. Years of it, from what you say. Maybe she just couldn’t handle it anymore,’ murmurs Fiona.
‘So, you think she’s run away?’
Fiona falls silent. Clements wishes she was conducting this interview face to face. She is good at reading people and knows that often a lot is said inside silences. ‘I don’t know. It’s one thing to think, isn’t it? Possibly the best thing.’ Fiona’s voice cracks. Not just angry then, worried for her friend too? The police are unfortunately used to bearing the brunt of people’s worry in the form of aggression. It doesn’t surprise Clements when Fiona throws out the heated challenge, ‘Isn’t it your job to take the educated guesses?’
‘It’s our job to find out everything we can.’ Fiona sighs. It isn’t clear if the sigh is one of frustration, anger, grief. ‘Is there anything at all you can think of that may be relevant? Anything to help us understand her state of mind?’
‘She was depressed.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘No, not certain. Maybe you should check with her doctor. I think she was on tablets at some point.’ Fiona admits this reluctantly, aware she is betraying a confidence, not wanting to paint her friend in a bad light. Clements doesn’t judge, half the people she knows are on antidepressants, popped them like vitamins, but if Kylie was depressed and taking antidepressants, she would be classed as vulnerable and maybe the missing persons case could be escalated.
‘That’s helpful, I will.’
‘I remember her talking once about how she couldn’t see any joy anymore. That she was blind to it.’
Clements doesn’t know how to ask the question but doesn’t know how she can avoid asking it either. Time is running out. They might be locked down by Monday. Other cases might come along and take precedent. It is a sickening thought, but lockdown is bound to lead to an increase in domestic violence. She wouldn’t be able to solely focus on this once lockdown was announced. Not without a body. But she doesn’t want a body. A body is so final. ‘Do you think she could have taken her own life?’ Clements probes. She tries to keep her tone neutral. Any hint of sympathy, empathy, shock, or judgement can be leading. She wants to know what the best friend thinks.
‘I don’t want to think that but it’s possible and maybe—’
‘Maybe what?’
‘Well, maybe that’s better than the alternative, you know. Someone taking her. Someone hurting her.’
25
Kylie
Thursday 19th March
I wake up because I sense movement. The lack of food has made me sluggish now, and I only manage to shake myself fully into consciousness as I hear the door bang behind him. The opportunity to identify which husband is doing this to me is lost. One moment I am sure it is Mark who might accuse me of not caring for the boys. The next I wonder, is it Daan who might declare I only care about myself. I don’t know. I can’t hold on to my concentration long enough to chase a theory thoroughly. I am so hungry. So scared. I see there is another food tray and more water. I pull at the edge of my jumper. Trying to cover up. I’m not being modest, that wouldn’t make sense; both men have enjoyed those parts of my body many times, and besides I’m alone in the room now, but my nakedness and the foul bucket leave me exposed, vulnerable, like a badly treated animal, caged by the circus ringmaster.
I crawl to the food tray and examine it. Two bananas, a protein bar, an M&S superfood salad and a bottle of iced tea. It’s Honest Tea, organic, Fair Trade, honey green, gluten free. Everything is in unopened packaging or its skin. It can’t have been tampered with. It’s safe to eat. I almost laugh. One of my husbands has drugged me, imprisoned and chained me, starved, then poisoned me but has now taken the time to shop for my favourite iced tea. If anything demonstrates how messed up this situation is, then my food tray does.
The shopping could have been bought by either of them. Although I run two separate lives, there is an element of crossover. Sometimes this is uncomfortable. Sometimes it feels very natural. These particular products span both my worlds so the tray doesn’t offer the answer to who my abductor is.
Leigh Fletcher does not eat protein bars, but her oldest son, Oli, does.
Kai eats them after an intense workout.
In the Fletcher home, this iced tea is a treat.
Daan buys it as a matter of routine.
Both Leigh and Kai like an M&S salad.
I don’t usually talk about myself in the third person – in two third people. I know I am both women. I know both women are me. I am not insane. I’m not even self-deluded.
There is another note on the food tray.
Choices have consequences. Weren’t you ever taught that?
I know I should be nothing but penitent, but the sanctimonious nature of the message irritates me. I suppose it’s not that surprising that I can be repentant and irritated at once; I’m the master of complex schisms. Of course, I am aware choices have consequences. It’s one of my mantras that I find myself repeating to the boys. I have never been blasé about what I’ve done, the choices I’ve made. I didn’t really think I would avoid the consequences. Not really, not forever. But this? This is madness, it is disproportionate and cruel. Frightening. My fingers shake as I unwrap the protein bar. I take a small nibble but then hunger cravings overwhelm me. I shove it in my mouth, barely chewing, almost gagging. I swallow it down. What day is it now? I think it is Thursday, but it feels as though I have been here forever. My God, how long might this go on for? I turn my
