Anything for Her (3 page)

She gets up, wincing as she puts weight on her injured ankle, and kneels before the fireplace. She takes a cutting of Michael and holds it between her fingertips. She scans his handsome face, his beaming smile, and his eyes – which always make her melt. She loathes him, yet craves him. She needs to be far away from him to heal after his betrayal, but needs him to hold her and tell her everything will be okay. She throws the cutting into the fire and watches as Michael’s face begins to burn away. The fire eats his smile and the sparkle in his eyes: it devours him until his entire face has turned to ash.

Louise takes the piles of cuttings and throws all of them into the fire to perish. She watches the fire digest her memories.

Ever since that night, Louise has fantasised about taking her own life, freeing herself from the excruciating burden of guilt. She chose not to for the sake of her husband and children. As she watches the photos burn to ash, suicidal thoughts begin to creep back into her mind.

Our marriage is over. I no longer have to stay for Michael
.

Brooke would understand. She hates herself just as much as I hate myself. She is probably hanging on for the sake of our family
.

What about Dominic? He’s young. Denise can be his new damn mother. She already has my husband, why not my son, too? He won’t miss me. I’m not the mother he used to know, the mother who was kind, doting, forever smiling – that woman is gone. He will be better off without me
.

She gets up from the floor and struggles to her feet. The wine makes her head spin and her thoughts scrambled. She goes towards the front door, slips into her boots and coat, and grabs her keys.

If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right
.

Louise leaves the house, slamming the door shut behind her. The sound echoes through the treetops as she makes her way towards her car, swaying on unsteady legs and shivering from the molestation of the cold. She unlocks the car and slams into the driver’s seat.

The tyres screech as they are forced into motion and the car whips through the small, dark village, drifting from one side of the road to the other, as though it is as drunk as its driver. As she drives past the quaint cottages with their unlit windows, her conscience and her guilt begin to battle over her fate.

You don’t deserve to live after what you did
.

You can’t leave your children. You can’t be that selfish
.

This is what you’ve wanted to do for an entire year. Now you finally have a chance to act
.

You’re drunk. You’re upset. You’re not thinking straight
.

Can you face another day? Can you face the fact that your sister stole your husband? That your marriage is over? That you’re soon to be penniless? Can you face what you did that night?

Louise drives out of the village and into the darkness of the night, engulfed by shadows and exhausted by her despair. She speeds down every road, unsure how she is going to end her life – or when. She considers letting go of the steering wheel and smashing into one of the trees by the roadside, hoping to be killed instantly by the impact, or rendered unconscious and thrown into a coma from which she will never wake.

She drives recklessly down unfamiliar roads, disorientated by the night, until she approaches a bridge; she impulsively pulls to a stop in the middle of
it, making the brakes squeal. Pulling up the handbrake, she turns off the engine and gets out.

It’s dark. The only light is that of the moon reflecting on the surface of the deep, wide river that passes under the bridge. The trees that frame each side of the river look like sinister walls, which keep the water flowing in the right direction.

Louise stands at the edge of the bridge, her hands on the ice-cold metal barrier, and breathes the fresh air into her lungs. The chill of the wind that stalks the flowing river stings her face.

Here. I’ll do it here. Tonight I will set myself free
.

She places a trembling leg over the barrier and fumbles to rest her foot on the narrow edge on the other side, sliding her body over the cold metal. Her heart is pounding in protest, pumping adrenaline through her veins. She rests the tips of her feet on the ledge, facing her car on the bridge, and musters the courage to turn around. She releases her grip on the metal rail with her left hand and pushes it out behind her as she turns on her feet, twisting and turning her body over the drop of the fall. Her left hand clasps the metal bar on the other side of her. She looks out, facing the river and the drop below. The full moon watches her intently from the sky.

As she gazes down at the long fall and the rocks protruding menacingly from the flowing ice-cold water, she begins to cry with overwhelming fear; she
wonders how much pain she will feel before she is freed from this life forever.

Chapter Five

Brooke picks the lock to the drinks cabinet in the grand living room and removes her father’s favourite bottle of whisky.

You cheated on Mum
, she thinks as she looks down at the label, checking it is definitely his most expensive, beloved bottle.
The least you deserve is to have your favourite whisky taken from you, you deceitful son of a bitch
.

If her father’s car still technically belonged to him, Brooke would go outside and drag her house key up and down the paintwork with vengeful glee. That is, if his car was in front of the house, and not where she suspects – outside Denise’s flat, where he is no doubt distracting himself between Denise’s legs.

Brooke goes downstairs and fixes herself a strong whisky and cola with two cubes of ice. She heads outside into the courtyard and sits at the table on the patio. She lights a cigarette.

The air is cold enough to make her body shiver and her teeth chatter; even the smoke escaping her lips emerges in clipped, quivering billows.

Where the hell are you, Mum?

She has called her mother three times today. All she has been able to think about is her parents fighting the
whole night long, her mother leaving, and her lack of sleep, which caused her to nod off in several of her sixth-form lessons.

She takes a drag on her cigarette and two large gulps of the whisky, which is strong enough to make her grimace.

She thinks back to some of the things she overheard her parents yelling the night before.

You’re a despicable excuse of a man! How can you even try to justify sleeping with my
sister
?

You’ve been impossible for the past year – depressed and always crying. It’s like my wife has died and has been replaced by a crazed woman who wakes up screaming in the night. You have so many secrets it’s difficult to keep up with them. I thought
you
were having an affair!

Don’t be ridiculous. I could never be that cold-hearted. Would that make you feel better? If I went and jumped into bed with your brother? Would that even the score?

Don’t change the subject. You’re always trying to get out of talking about your secrets. What the hell has happened to my wife? What bloody happened that night?

Brooke knocks back her drink and the strength of the whisky makes her eyes glisten; she closes them and listens to the sounds of London: police sirens, car horns, distant chatter from nearby streets. Even the
sounds of her favourite city can’t distract her from her life.

This is my fault
.

Her mind strays to the night that changed her life forever; the night that brought her and her mother closer than ever. Crimes that involve spilling the blood of others bind people into partnerships that are glued together with mutual, terrorising fear. She smokes the cigarette to the filter, which shakes between her fingers.

Her mother has always been the strong one, especially since that night.
I just need you to tell me everything will be okay, Mum
. She takes her phone from her pocket and decides to call her mother one last time.

Chapter Six

Louise stands on the narrow ledge of the bridge.

She is so drunk she wonders how much longer she will be able to stand and whether the alcohol will cause her to slip from the ledge so she won’t have to jump. Her tears blur her vision, but she can still see the moon’s rays lighting up the river’s choppy surface. The wind cools the tears on her face and bites at her exposed skin. Her pyjama bottoms dance wildly in the wind and, beneath her coat, she feels sweat trickling from her armpits. Her boots feel too large for the ledge, which only allows for the heel of each boot to rest on it. Her hands grip the railing so tightly that her fingers and knuckles turn white. She doesn’t know how she will build up the courage to let go. She darts her head from left to right, terrified that a car will emerge from the darkness and head for the bridge – that the driver will see her and try to stop her.

This is your only chance. Do it. Now
.

Think of your children. They are at home waiting for you to return
.

You can’t go back. Your life has been destroyed
.

Can you really abandon your children?

Can you really live another day?

Despite the conflicting arguments inside her mind,
she has never felt so much clarity in all her life. She cannot continue living this lie in the shadows of that night. She cannot live with the guilt of what she did, while trying to piece back together her shattered reality. She has to die. She has to die tonight.

Louise takes in a deep, rattled breath and begins to loosen her grip on the railing. She inches forwards, her hands slipping from the railing bit by bit, until her fingertips are the only parts of her keeping her from plummeting to her death into the freezing waters below.

Her phone begins to vibrate inside her coat pocket. The sound is deep and sinister. She jolts and snatches onto the railing with a firmer grip. Her injured foot slips from the ledge, taking the other with it, and throws her downwards, screaming. Both of her hands slip from the railing as she falls. She grips the ledge where her feet once stood, breathing in frantic breaths as her feet scramble against the side of the bridge. Her phone continues to vibrate as she dangles above the drop and her shrieks echo in the darkness.

It is as though every drop of alcohol has evaporated from her body: the fall had instantly shocked her sober. Her once hungry need for death disappears into the back of her mind as her instinct to survive overwhelms her. She whimpers as she struggles to drag herself up, while the wind pushes against her from one side and then the other. She grabs the railing
with one hand, and then the other; her grip immediately begins to moisten with terrified sweat. All she is aware of is the sound of the water rushing under the bridge, waiting to engulf her when she falls, flowing around sharp rocks that jut out of the water like glistening teeth.

Louise throws all of her energy into the climb: the muscles in her arms burn from the strain. She manages to secure one foot on the ledge and pulls herself up. She claws her way up the metal barrier and, with both feet back on the ledge, she frantically grips onto the railing, begging her feet not to slip again. She climbs over the railing, shaking violently all over, and falls onto the road on the other side. She lies there for a moment, gasping for breath, taking in each gulp of air as though it is the best thing in the entire world. She looks up at the star-filled sky and allows her heart to slowly calm.

The vibrating starts again.

With a jittering hand, Louise retrieves the phone from her coat pocket and holds it above her.

On the screen is a photo of Brooke, blonde and smiling.

She looks at the photo of her daughter and takes in her beautiful smile and haunted eyes. She immediately answers it.

‘Hello!’

‘Where have you been?’ Brooke asks, worried. ‘I’ve
been calling you all day.’

You have no idea, Brooke
.

‘I’m at the country house,’ she replies, breathlessly.

‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ Louise lies.

‘How long are you going to stay there – at the country house?’

‘I don’t know, Brooke,’ she replies, flustered. ‘I need to have some time alone.’

‘I get it. I just… I miss you. We all miss you.’

Louise closes her eyes, overcome by guilt.

‘Is your dad there?’

‘No, he’s out,’ she replies, instantly regretting the words. ‘He might be at a friend’s or a bar or something.’

Tears form in Louise’s eyes.

‘We both know where he is,’ she whimpers; trying to stifle the approaching wails.

‘I’m so sorry, Mum. I didn’t mean to—’

‘I know, I know,’ she replies. ‘I just need to be alone, all right?’

‘All right. I love you.’

‘I love you too,’ Louise replies, before hanging up to sob.

My adulterous husband is in bed with my sister, while I’m a suicidal mess
.

I hate him. I hate him with every atom in my body
.

She sobs into her hands, draws her knees up to her
chest and wishes she had let go when she had slipped, so that she would never have to feel this pain again.

Chapter Seven

Louise wakes up to the pungent smell of vomit. She dares to open her eyes, just squinting enough to figure out where she is. She is lying on the sofa, hot and sweaty; she hadn’t removed her coat when she returned from the bridge. She had drunk another bottle of wine on her return, before vomiting and falling asleep on the sofa with tears drying on her face. Her mouth and throat are dry and sticky, as though she had been chewing on sand while she slept. She coughs violently: tar and phlegm loosen in her lungs. The strain makes her headache worsen.

The doorbell rings. The shrill sound echoes in her ears, upsetting her swollen brain. The clock on the wall tells her it is midday. All of the curtains and blinds are closed, giving the room a gloomy, sombre air. The sun’s rays rest outside each window, waiting impatiently to be let in.