The Cradle in the Grave (54 page)

Kit would like all of these things. I swallow, tell myself this proves nothing.

There's a tiled fireplace with a map above it in a frame, a chimney breast, matching alcoves on either side. I didn't notice that when I looked through the window. Maybe I didn't allow myself to notice. A symmetrical room, a Kit sort of room. I feel a little nauseous.

Christ, this is insane.
How many living rooms, up and down the country, follow this basic format: fireplace, a chimney breast, alcoves left and right? It's a classic design, replicated all over the world. It appeals to Kit, and to about a trillion other people.

Quickly, wanting to be finished with this task I've set myself – aware that it's making me feel worse, not better – I work my way through the other rooms, enlarging their pictures. Hall and stairs, carpeted in beige, chunky dark wood banister. A utility room with sky-blue unit fronts, similar to those in the kitchen. Honey-coloured marble for the house bathroom – clean and ostentatiously expensive.

I click on a picture of what must be the back garden. It's a lot bigger than I'd have imagined, having only seen the house from the front. I scroll down to the text beneath the photographs and see that it's described as being just over an acre. It's the sort of garden I'd love to have: decking for a table and chairs, two-seater garden swing with a canopy, vast lawn, trees at the bottom, lush yellow fields beyond. An idyllic countryside view, ten minutes' walk from the centre of Cambridge. Now I'm starting to understand the 1.2-million-pound price tag. I try not to compare what I'm looking at to Melrose Cottage's garden, which is roughly the size of half a single garage. It's big enough to accommodate a wrought iron table, four chairs, a few plants in terracotta pots, and not a lot else.

That's it. I've looked at all the pictures, seen all there is to see.

I yawn and rub my eyes. I'm about to close down the Roundthehouses website and go back to bed when I notice a row of buttons beneath the picture of the back garden: ‘Street View', ‘Floorplan', ‘Virtual Tour'. I don't need a view of Bentley Grove – I've seen more than enough of it in the past six months – but I might as well have a look at number 11's floorplan, since I've got this far. I click on the button, then hit the ‘x' to shut down the screen within seconds of it opening. It isn't going to help me to know which room is where; I'd be better off taking the virtual tour. Will it make me feel as if I'm walking around the house myself, looking into every room? That's what I'd like to do.

I hit the button and wait for the tour to load. Another button pops up: ‘Play Tour'. I click on it. The kitchen appears first, and I see what I've already seen in the photograph, then a bit more as the camera does a 360-degree turn to reveal the rest of the room. Then another turn, then another. The spinning effect makes me feel dizzy, as if I'm on a roundabout that won't stop. I close my eyes, needing a break. I'm so tired. Travelling to Cambridge and back in a day nearly every Friday is doing me no good; it's not the physical effort that's draining, it's the secrecy. I have to move on, let it go.

I open my eyes and see a mass of red. At first I don't know what I'm looking at, and then . . .
Oh, God. It can't be. Oh, fuck, oh, God.
Blood. A woman lying face down in the middle of the room, and blood, a lake of it, all over the beige carpet. For a second, in my panic, I mistake the blood for my own. I look down at myself.
No blood.
Of course not – it's not my carpet, not my house. It's 11 Bentley Grove. The lounge, spinning. The fireplace, the framed map above it, the door open to the hall . . .

I make a noise that might be a scream. I try to call Kit's name, but it doesn't work. Where's the phone? Not on its base. Where's my BlackBerry? Should I ring 999? Panting, I reach out for something, I'm not sure what. I can't take my eyes off the screen. The blood is still slowly turning, the dead woman slowly turning.
She must be dead; it must be her blood. Red around the outside, almost black in the middle. Black-red, thick as tar. Make it stop spinning.

I stand up, knock my chair over. It falls to the floor with a thud. I back away from my desk, wanting only to escape.
Out, out!
a voice in my head screams. I'm stumbling in the wrong direction, nowhere near the door.
Don't look. Stop looking.
I can't help it. My back hits the wall; something hard presses into my skin. I hear a crash, step on something that crunches. Pain pricks the soles of my feet. I look down and see broken glass. Blood. Mine, this time.

Somehow, I get myself out of the room and close the door. Better; now there's a barrier between it and me.
Kit.
I need Kit. I walk into our bedroom, switch on the light and burst into tears. How dare he be asleep? ‘Kit!'

He groans, blinks. ‘Light off,' he mumbles, groggy with sleep. ‘Fuck's going on? Time is it?'

I stand there crying, my feet bleeding onto the white rug.

‘Con?' Kit hauls himself up into a sitting position and rubs his eyes. ‘What's wrong? What's happened?'

‘She's dead,' I tell him.