I Know Who You Are. Alice Feeney
her silent companion.
‘Used to, if we’d had a fight, when we still had enough time and energy to argue. But none of our bedrooms are spare any more, they’re all full of hormonal teenagers.’
It speaks.
‘Any reason why you have a bolt on the inside of your bedroom door, Mrs Sinclair?’ she asks.
At first, I don’t know what to say.
‘I told you, I had a stalker. It made me take home security pretty seriously.’
‘Any reason why the bolt is busted?’ She swings the door back to reveal the broken metal shape and splintered wood on the frame.
Yes.
I feel my cheeks turn red. ‘It got jammed a little while ago, my husband had to force it open.’ She looks back at the door and nods slowly, as though it is an effort.
‘Got an attic?’
‘Yes.’
‘Basement?’
‘No. Do you want to see the attic?’
‘Not this time.’
This time? How many times are there going to be?
I follow them back downstairs and the tour of the house concludes in the kitchen.
‘Nice flowers.’ She looks at the expensive bouquet on the table and reads the card. ‘What was he sorry for?’
‘I’m not sure, I never got to ask him.’
If she thinks something, her face doesn’t show it. ‘Great garden.’ She stares out through the glass folding doors. The looked-after lawn is still wearing its stripes from the last time Ben mowed it, and the hardwood decking practically sparkles in the early-morning sun.
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s a nice place, like a show home or something you’d see in a magazine. What’s the word I’m looking for … ? Minimalist. That’s it. No family photos, books, clutter … ’
‘We haven’t unpacked everything yet.’
‘Just moved in?’
‘About a year ago.’ They both look up then. ‘I’m away a lot for work. I’m an actress.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, Mrs Sinclair. I know who you are. I saw you in that TV show last year, the one where you played a police officer. I … enjoyed it.’
Her lopsided smile fades, making me think that she didn’t. I stare back, feeling even more uncomfortable than before, and completely clueless about how to reply.
‘Do you have a recent photograph of your husband that we can take with us?’ she asks.
‘Yes, of course.’ I walk through to the mantelpiece in the lounge, but there is nothing there. I look around the room at the bare walls, and sparse shelves, and realise that there is not a single photo of him, or me, or us. There used to be a framed picture of our wedding day in here, I don’t know where it has gone. Our big day was rather small; just the two of us. It led to even smaller days, until we struggled to find each other in them. ‘I might have something on my phone. Could I email it to you or do you need a hard copy?’
‘Email is fine.’ That unnatural smile spreads across her face again, like a rash.
I pick up my mobile and start to scroll through the photos. There are plenty of the cast and crew working on the film, lots of Jack – my co-star – a few of me, but none of Ben. I notice my hands are trembling, and when I look up, I see that she has noticed too.
‘Does your husband have a passport?’
Of course he has a passport. Everyone has a passport.
I hurry to the sideboard where we keep them, but it isn’t there. Neither is mine. I start to pull things out of the drawer, but she interrupts my search.
‘Don’t worry, I doubt your husband has left the country. Based on what we know so far, I don’t expect he is too far away.’
‘What makes you say that?’
She doesn’t respond.
‘DI Croft has solved every case she’s been assigned since joining the force,’ says the male detective, like a proud father. ‘You’re in safe hands.’
I don’t feel safe, I feel scared.
‘Mind if we take these?’ She slips Ben’s phone and wallet inside a clear plastic bag without waiting for an answer. ‘Don’t worry about the photo for now, we can collect it next time.’ She removes her blue plastic gloves and heads out into the hall.
‘Next time?’
She ignores me again and they let themselves out. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ he says, before walking away.
I sink down onto the floor once I’ve closed the door behind them. I felt is if they were silently accusing me of something the whole time they were here, but I don’t know what. Do they think I murdered my husband and buried him beneath the floorboards? I have an urge to open the door, call them back and defend myself, tell them that I haven’t killed anyone.
But I don’t do that.
Because it isn’t true.
I have.
Galway, 1987
I was lost before I was even born.
My mummy died that day and he never forgave me.
It was my fault – I was late and then I turned the wrong way. I’m still not very good at looking where I am going.
When I was stuck inside her belly, not wanting to come out for some reason that I do not remember, the doctor told my daddy he’d have to choose between us, said he couldn’t save us both. Daddy chose her, but he didn’t get what he wanted. He got me instead, and that made him sad and angry for a very long time.
My brother told me the story of what happened. Over and over.
He’s much older than me, so he knows things that I don’t.
He says I killed her.
I’ve tried awful hard not to kill things since then. I step over ants, pretend not to see spiders, and when my brother takes me fishing, I empty the net back into the sea. He says our daddy was a kind man before I broke his heart.
I hear them, down in the shed together.
I know I’m not allowed, but I want to know what they are doing.
They do lots of things without me. Sometimes I watch.
I stand on the old tree stump we use for chopping wood, and peek through the tiny hole in the shed wall. My right eye finds the chicken first, the white one we call Diana. There is a princess with that name in England – we named the chicken after her. Daddy’s giant fist is wrapped around its throat, and its feet are tied together with a piece of black string. He turns the bird upside down and it hangs still, except for its little black eyes. They seem to look in my direction, and I think that chicken knows I’m watching something I shouldn’t.
My brother is holding an axe.
He’s crying.
I’ve never seen him cry before. I’ve heard him through my bedroom wall, when Daddy uses his belt, but this is the first time I’ve seen his tears. His fifteen-year-old face is red and blotchy and his hands are shaking.
The first swing of the axe doesn’t do it.
The chicken flaps its wings, thrashing