and another in the main bedroom.
I work my way through the rooms, opening cupboards and drawers, sketching the layout in my mind. There are letters to read, bills to peruse, phone numbers and photographs to study. Propped near the telephone is a birthday invitation.
What else can I find? Here is a bright envelope with polished paper- you are cordially invited to a hen night. A note has been scrawled across the bottom. Bring your dancing shoes.
There are three bedrooms in the flat. The smallest belongs to a child. She has a Coldplay poster on the wall alongside a Harry Potter calendar. There are photographs of horses and pony club rosettes. Her pyjamas are beneath her pillow. A crystal hangs from a hook on the windowsill. Stuffed animals spill from a box in the corner.
The main bedroom has an en suite. The vanity drawers are full of lipsticks, body scrubs, nail polish and sample packs from a dozen hotel stays and airline flights. Tucked away in the lowest drawer is a faux fur make-up bag containing a small pink vibrator and a set of handcuffs.
A change in air pressure rattles a window. The main door has opened downstairs, creating a slight vacuum in the stairwell. There are footsteps. I stand for a moment in the bedroom with an ear cocked. Keys jangle. One of them slides into the barrel of the lock. Turns.
The door opens and closes. I feel the tiny tremor under my feet and hear their voices. Coats are shrugged off and hung on hooks. A kettle is filled. There is soft laughter and the smell of foodtakeaway- something Asian with coriander and coconut milk. I listen to the sound of food being spooned onto plates and eaten in front of a
TV
Afterwards the dishes are cleared away. Somebody is coming. I draw back sharply into the shadows, stepping into a wardrobe, pulling clothes around me. I breathe in the bitch’s scent, her stale perfume and sweat.
As a child I used to love playing hide and seek with my brother; the ball-tightening, bladder-clenching sense of excitement, the fear of discovery. Sometimes I’d curl up and try not to breathe, but my brother always found me. He said he could hear me because I was trying too hard not to make a sound.
A shadow passes the door. I see the bitch’s reflection in the tilted mirror. She goes to the toilet. Her skirt is pulled up, her tights rolled down. Her thighs are pale as candle wax. She stands and flushes, turning to face the mirror, pivoting forward over the sink to examine her face, pulling at the skin around her eyes. She talks to herself. I can’t hear what she says. Her tights are tossed aside. She raises her arms and a nightdress slides over her shoulders and the hem drops to her knees.
Her daughter has gone to her room. I hear her schoolbag tossed in a corner and the sound of the shower. Later she comes to say goodnight. Air kisses. Tousled hair. Sweet dreams.
I’m alone with the bitch. There is no man of the house. He has been evicted, cast out, passed over, disenfranchised; the king is dead, long live the queen!
She has turned on the TV and watches from her bed, flicking through the channels, a bright square in her eyes. She isn’t really watching. She picks up a book instead. Does she feel me here? Is there a shiver of apprehension or a sense of disquiet, like a ghost leaving footprints on her grave?
I am the voice she’s going to hear when she dies. My words. I am going to ask her if she’s frightened. I am going to unlock her mind. I am going to stop her heart. I am going to beat her to floor and feed on her bloody mouth.
When?
Soon.
12
My legs don’t want to move this morning. It takes harsh words and willpower to swing them from the bed. I stand and pull on a dressing gown. It’s after seven. Charlie should have woken me by now. She’s going to be late for school. I yell out for her. Nobody answers.
The bedrooms are empty. I make my way downstairs. Two bowls of soggy cereal sit on the kitchen table. The milk has been left out of the fridge.
The phone rings. It’s Julianne.
‘Hello.’
There is a beat of silence. ‘Hi.’
‘How are you?’
‘Good. How’s Rome?’
‘I’m in Moscow. Rome was last week.’
‘Oh, that’s right.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine. Just woke up.’
‘How are my beautiful girls?’
‘Perfect.’
‘How is it that when I’m home they’re capable of being absolutely horrid but around you they’re perfect?’
‘I bribe them.’
‘I remember. Have you found a nanny?’
‘Not yet.’
‘What happened?’
‘I’m still interviewing. I’m looking for Mother Teresa.’
‘You know she’s dead.’
‘How about Scarlett Johansson?’
‘We’re not having Scarlett Johansson look after our children.’
‘ Now who’s being picky?’
She laughs. ‘Can I talk to Emma?’
‘She’s not here just now.’
‘Where is she?’
I look at the open door and can hear the rustle of my own breathing in the mouthpiece. ‘In the garden.’
‘It must have stopped raining.’
‘Uh-huh. How’s the trip?’
‘Painful. The Russians are stalling. They want a better deal.’
I’m standing at the sink, looking out the window. The lower panes are smeared with condensation. The upper panes frame a blue sky.
‘Are you sure everything is all right?’ she asks. ‘You’re sounding very strange.’
‘I’m fine. I miss you.’
‘I miss you too. I’ve got to go. Bye.’
‘Bye.’
I hear the click of the phone. As if on cue, Emma comes bounding through the back door with Darcy behind her. The teenager catches the youngster and hugs her tightly. Both are laughing.
Darcy is wearing a dress. It belongs to Julianne. She must have found it in the ironing basket. The light from the doorway paints the outline of her body within it. Teenage girls don’t feel the cold.
‘Where have you been?’
‘We went for a walk,’ she says, defensively. Emma reaches towards me with her arms and I pick her up.
‘Where’s Charlie?’
