Dark Mirrors (9 page)

And as she sat there in the darkness, minding the clock, watching the big hand and eventually the little hand move around its big white face, she couldn’t help but think about what her mother had said that morning. Perhaps she was being unreasonable, selfish even. Could she have handled him differently? Was she doing the right thing?

In her mind she finally settled on the notion that Philip’s reaction to her newsflash would dictate her next course of action. She was losing her bottle, the wait unnerving her and her resolve wavering. Maybe if she got him to promise to go to counselling again, if he promised to see it through this time, maybe she should stay. Maybe this was the shock that he needed. Maybe he would see the error of his ways? If he came home at all.

She had just called Lizzie on the mobile, to make sure that they didn’t take her literally and come looking for her, when she heard a car door slam outside. It was a quarter past ten.

Sitting at the counter now, in her mind’s eye she tracked his movements to the door. The knot in her stomach tightened and she could feel the blood throbbing through her veins, its effects concentrated in the edges of her temples. She needed to pee. She needed a drink. She was going to be sick. Quelling the nauseous feeling in the pit of her stomach, she prepared to face him, the last part in her plan, so far.

The front door slammed. Silence. She heard the heavy thump of his case as it hit the timber floor. No movement – obviously assessing the silence around him. Hearing the shuffle of fabric she visualised him taking off his jacket and hanging it on the banister at the bottom of the stairs.

Here we go, she thought, sitting up as his footsteps headed in her direction.

He entered the kitchen and stood in the doorway

“What are you doing sitting here in the dark?” he asked, pressing the light switch on the wall beside him.

Her eyes flinched as they adjusted to the new brightness in the room. She actually hadn’t noticed how dark it was. Her throat was dry.

“Where were you?” she asked

“Jesus! What is this, sixty questions?” he retorted.

“No, just the one. I’m just curious to know where you’ve come from, that’s all.”

“Well, seeing as I just flew in from Paris one could assume I came from the airport.”

His sarcastic reply washed over her as her mind raced forwards, trying to keep one step ahead of him.

“You landed on time then?” she asked innocently.

He looked at her, sensing a trap but not quite sure exactly what.

“No,” he said, opening the fridge to extract a beer. “We were delayed an hour.”

“Really?” she said, the distrust evident in her tone. “Well, that’s funny because I went to the airport to collect you and your flight actually landed five minutes early.” She had no idea where this was headed, winging it completely as the plan deviated so far from its original course, his blatant lie ringing a fresh set of alarm bells. “Where were you, Philip?”

“What, are you checking up on me now?”

She heard the defensive anger in the acid tone of his response.

“No, Philip, I actually stopped checking up on you months ago.” She had the control and he was cornered.

“What the hell are you up to, Esmée?”

He was obviously totally unprepared for her careless approach. She knew she must seem different: stronger, intimidating, aggressive even, which was not her style.

“What am
I
up to?” she said, throwing his question back to him, emphasising the “I”, pushing back on the guilt because this time, for once, it was she who was ‘up to something’, something that he would never have suspected. “Well, Philip . . .”

She stood up and rounded the counter to stand tall in front of him.

He had completely ruined her perfectly timed plan and she had now no option but to go for this totally un-rehearsed, un-prepared plan B where, for once, she had the upper hand and was quite enjoying the experience.

“I wanted to collect you from the airport to prepare you for what you would find here when you got back.”

“And?” he asked throwing his arms up, swinging them around, splashing beer onto the floor. “What have I found apart from my lunatic wife sitting here in the pitch black?”

“Only because you lied about your flight, otherwise I wouldn’t be here at all and, to be honest, I actually don’t care where you were or for that matter where you’re going, because wherever
it is I’m not going with you.” She was calm and controlled. Her voice wasn’t raised but her diction was clear and her pitch perfect.

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion as she continued evenly.

“What I wanted to tell you was that when you came in that door . . .” she gestured towards the front door, “you would find an empty house because the children and I have moved out.”

She hadn’t expected to be so abrupt and was surprised by her own forthright offensive. Moving back a pace she raised a hand to her heaving chest. There! It was done.

Philip stepped toward her, towering tall; a menacing blackness crossed his face. For a mad minute she thought he was going to hit her. Gauging the distance she retreated a step back, the sound of her own heartbeat booming in her ears, resounding like she’d run a three-minute mile. She held his stare, his intense, ominous and spiteful stare – she could feel his eyes boring deep into her, feel them clutch her soul and wring it until all remaining feelings she had for him were strangled. She had played her trump card and he had nothing to better it. He had lied to her once too often and this, conclusively, was the final straw.

He took a slow measured stride forward and placed his beer bottle carefully on the counter, then leering down he spat at her through clenched teeth and biting jaws. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

Esmée did a double take. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, what are you waiting for?” he snarled, his volume rising and colour intensifying, the pressure in the room building as, pointing to the door, he looked down at her and bellowed: “Go on! Fuck off so! Get the fuck out of here and don’t bother to come crawling back when you run out of money!”

“What?”

“Are you deaf or something?” he screamed, leaning dangerously close, so close she could smell his alcohol-laden breath.

Without warning he took hold of her hair, gripping it tight at the back of her head, pulling her back till her neck felt it might snap. He walked her backwards then pushed her against the island – she grabbed it to keep her balance. She saw his hand rise from the corner of her eye but hadn’t the time to move before it connected hard against her brow.

She swivelled with the force of the blow and fell onto the edge of the island.

“Shall I draw you a pretty picture? Shall I spell it out for you?” he mocked menacingly, following her as she grappled to stay upright, his eyes wild and his face wearing a saccharine smile. He poked his index finger hard into the soft part of her shoulder. “Well? Shall I?” he sneered, pushing her with his finger.

Even her arms wrapped over her head couldn’t protect her. She took the second blow to the underside of her cheek. But she didn’t fall. Her upper body pivoted from her hips while her hair swung round to stick to the blood that was seeping down her cheek. But she didn’t fall.

Picking up her coat and bag, he grabbed her by the shoulder and shoved her towards the door. She winced as his fingers dug in to propel her forward so forcefully that she stumbled, putting her hand to the wall to regain her balance. He pushed her again out into the hall – this time she tripped over his case and fell, hitting her head on the hallstand. Grabbing her by the back of her T-shirt he pulled her up, its neckline cutting into her throat. Her hands grappled at her neck as she tried to release the pressure.

Opening the front door of the house he shoved her through it and out into the balmy evening darkness, throwing her bag and coat after her. She landed hard, face down on the short gravel driveway. The front door slammed behind her.

She pushed herself up, her hand going instinctively to her head. She felt a short sharp pain as she touched the wide gash across her forehead. Stunned and gasping for air she gathered up her coat and bag, struggling to keep her balance as she stumbled towards the car. Fumbling in her pockets she prayed that she had put the car keys in one of them. Her fingers, trembling with fear and shock, finally clutched the familiar shape. Pressing the unlock button on the fob she climbed into the car, locking the doors after her.

Curtains twitched as her old neighbours watched her drive away and, as she exited the quiet up-market estate, her body bruised and cut, shaking with the trauma of the abuse inflicted upon it, she cried from her heart and vowed never, ever, to darken the door of that house again. But it was not a promise she could keep.

* * *

In the darkness of the tall oak trees the man watched the silver Volvo speed jarringly away from Number 12 Woodland Drive. Protected by the deep shadows of the broad foliage, he leaned against the tall tree-trunk and drew deep on the end of his cigarette, its fiery glow highlighting his stern angular features before it was casually flicked into the undergrowth. Pushing himself nonchalantly off the trunk he emerged from the trees, flipping open his mobile as he walked. As he lifted it to his ear he glanced around calmly, ensuring that the previously flapping curtains were once again still.

“He’s back,” he reported into the handset, facetiously adding, “Seems to be havin’ a spot o’ trouble with the missus.”

He listened as instructions were issued. There were no goodbyes before he flicked the phone closed and walked undisturbed past the neatly parked cars and carefully manicured gardens. Pausing at Number 12 he looked up and down the street once more before approaching the front door, fixing the leather collar of his knee-length coat as he went. He stood still for a short moment in front of that door, priming himself, stretching his neck muscles, until eventually he extended his arm to its full length and rang the doorbell.

A long black shadow bled over the driveway as his broad bulk blocked the bright yellow light that filtered through the glass of door. It was opened sharply to him.

An acid smile stretched across the visitor’s face as he spoke.

“How yeh, Philly, man? Are yeh not gonna invite me in?”

Pushing his host roughly back into the house, he stepped forward and closed the door firmly behind him.

Chapter 7

It had been a long night and Esmée, waking slowly, hoped and prayed that she had experienced nothing more than a horrible, horrible nightmare. The excruciating pain that pierced her brow when she turned on her pillow told her otherwise. She had no idea what time it was, her watch having fallen victim to the previous evening’s events, a cruel irony considering it was Philip’s gift to her on their wedding day. Taking it from her wrist, its sad face crushed and ruined, she cast it onto the bedside table, listening as she did to the empty silence of the cottage. Not a sound.

She wondered who had taken the children to school, knowing full well that one of her sisters would have done so. They had taken over swiftly last night, sweeping into action as soon as she walked through the door. She tried to remember the detail but it was nothing more than a hazy blur. The only thing that was vividly lucid in her memory was the look in her husband’s Neanderthal eyes before he came at her. And as she lay there, her eyes still closed, she focused hard on piecing together the chronicle of the previous night’s events.

She remembered stalling the car as she tried to steer it out of the estate, trying to stop her legs from shaking and at the same time co-ordinate the pedals while wiping blood from around her eye. She remembered Lizzie’s shocked yelp as she collapsed in the door of the cottage and the explicit profanities that escaped Penny’s normally virtuous mouth while tending to the cuts on her face, hands and knees. And she would never forget the chill of the bathroom floor-tiles where she sat and the persistent whirl of the fan as it extracted the smell of antiseptic to the air outside. She recalled her miserable pointless protests at Lizzie’s stubborn insistence on calling the police and the somewhat familiar face of the investigating officer who had sat before her, coaxing, encouraging her to answer his probing questions: Who? Where? When? Why? But she couldn’t speak. Her head was spinning. She didn’t want to speak – his questions were like needles pricking at her brain, making her head hurt more. And was she hallucinating or did Conor, Penny’s doctor fiancé, turn up too? It was too much. There were too many of them, she couldn’t concentrate and her head was stinging like mad. After that . . . nothing.

Esmée had no idea when or how she got to bed; all she knew was that was where she ended up and where she now awoke. Her body ached and her head hurt. She felt hungover.

Turning slowly out of respect for the throb in the core of her skull, she buried her face in the soft pillow. A mixture of confusion, guilt and humiliation forced its way through the disorder of her thoughts. How stupid was she? She’d thought she was so smart, so in control.

“Esmée, you eejit! You complete and utter spanner,” she muttered into her pillow as she remembered with embarrassment how she had challenged him, goaded him, and pushed him to his now apparent limit. Why couldn’t she have just kept her mouth shut? If only she’d left well enough alone. If only she’d gone with her first plan of saying nothing. If only she’d stayed put. If only she’d listened to her mother. If only . . . Too late now. Now it was all screwed up and, she believed, it was all her own doing.