The Stranger Within (36 page)

Someone has left the patio light on outside and a dull, warm glow seeps into the dark kitchen. It is better this way. I don’t want James to see me under the harsh light.

Still ignoring me, he opens the cupboard, pulling out a bottle of whisky and pouring himself a large glass. It is more than a double but I am in no position to comment. He sits at the table and when I join him, making sure I take the opposite chair instead of the one beside him, he buries his head in his hands. His eyes are bloodshot when he finally looks up, his cheeks stained with tears.

“Tell me everything,” he says, staring into his glass. “No more lies. I just want to hear the truth, whatever it is.” He has had hours to think about this while I took Dad home, so he will be sure of what he wants. I never expected James to want details, I thought he would avoid them at all costs.

              “Are you sure?” I ask. I am strangely calm now. “Because once you know, you can never un-know.”

              “Just tell me.”

              “Where are Dillon and Luke?” I ask, stalling for time.

              “I took them to Emma’s. I don’t want them to be here. There’s no way I can let them hear this. Now just fucking tell me.”

              This is a day of firsts: the first time Dad has been to this house, the first time James has set eyes on him, the first time he has sworn at me. And the first time he will hear that his wife has blood on her hands.

              As we sit in the semidarkness, I tell James everything. And with every word I can feel a piece of him crumbling. He is just another casualty of my actions. But it stops now. When I get to Rhys’ last night, I can’t give him details, my brain won’t allow it, and he lets out a sigh. I want to believe he is relieved that I have spared him, but I cannot read him at the moment.

              By the time I’ve finished we are both crying and I am shaking as well. But I feel as if I am lighter, that just by speaking I have lifted a heavy burden, even if only slightly. But then I realise that all I have done is make this James’ problem too. Now he also has to live with what I have done, to carry the heavy weight. The lies are better after all; how could I have thought otherwise? I feel my gut twist with panic and I sink to the floor in a crumpled heap, just like Eva Marshall did the night she was here.

I will James to help me up, but he leaves me where I am. He turns away and stares through the patio door. I don’t know what I expected to happen once I’d told him, but it wasn’t this. I thought there would be shouting and screaming, that he’d grab me and force me out of his house. Because it is just that, after all. His house. It was never mine. I did not expect silence and tears. But there is no rulebook for what to do when your wife confesses to killing someone, is there? James is only doing his best to cope with what I have told him.

When he turns back to me, his expression has changed. His tears have dried and his face is softer. There is something there, something I can cling to, and buoyed by this, I pick myself up and sit on the chair again. He doesn’t flinch or move away from me. This is promising.

We sit like this for too long and all the time he doesn’t speak I let myself believe we will find a way through this together. I have no idea what that could be, but two are stronger than one.

He looks at his watch – the one Lauren gave him all those years ago that he can’t bear to be without – and then slowly reaches for my hand. “I can’t process this,” he says, finally. “Any of it. I don’t know what the fuck –”

And then I say it, over and over, as if I am a malfunctioning machine.
Sorry, sorry, sorry
. The words begin to roll into one until finally they are just a sound. A sound without a meaning. And then I am screaming it, shouting it, throwing the words at James because he won’t believe me. Or won’t let himself.

“Callie, calm down,” he says, placing his hands on my shoulders to stop me shaking. Is this it? Has it finally happened?

I grab hold of his arms and am shocked to feel how cold his skin is. “Please, James. Please…” I don’t know what I am begging for but I can’t stop the words.

He pulls away. “What the fuck do you want? What do you want from me?” Then he kicks his chair, so hard it slams against the patio door. I reel back and am finally calm, but my breathing doesn’t slow. I watch as he flings open the door and rushes outside, pacing up and down the garden.

I don’t follow him immediately. He needs time to absorb everything. It’s taken me long enough to do that myself, and I’ve had so much longer to adapt than I’m giving him. It’s possible that tomorrow he will have got his head around this, and we will plan the next steps together.

You are losing it, Callie. Can’t you see what’s staring you in the face?

Outside, James sits on the step leading up to the lawn. Only when I’m sure I have pulled myself together do I join him. He flinches when my leg touches his as I sit down, but I ignore his reaction.

“Listen,” I say. “It will all be okay. We’ll get through this together. Like a family is supposed to.”

You are insane. How can you possibly believe that?

He snorts. “I loved you,” he says. “I did. But you never quite believed it, did you? That’s what this is all about. Everything. It’s because you had no faith in me, or yourself.”

I turn away from him.

“If you’d believed in us, you would have known that even if you got sick like your dad, I would never turn my back on you.”

I don’t want to hear these words. I want him to yell and swear again. I need his anger.

“I keep wanting to ask you how you could do that…to Rhys, but it seems such a stupid question. I don’t know…a cliché or something.”

But he is wrong. It is an important question, and one I need to answer, for both our sakes. “I suppose I just don’t know myself. That’s all I can say. I just don’t know what I’m capable of.”

I don’t know whether this helps James but he sighs and stands up. “Let’s go back inside. I need another drink and I think you could do with one too.”

This is promising and I agree, following him inside. As I close the door, I look outside and half expect to see Jazzy appear from the shed. This is the thing: once someone has been in your life, they will always be there, whether in the shadows or somewhere closer. Lauren, Rhys. It is only now I fully understand how difficult it’s been for James and the boys to move on.

              We take our drinks to the living room and sit on the sofa, but it feels too civilised after everything I have done. Too normal. I feel as if we are bad actors in a terrible movie, unsure how to portray emotion and get across the severity of our situation. Of course we don’t speak – it is safer just to focus on drinking our whiskys – and when I catch him looking at me he turns away.

              When we’ve finished, he takes our glasses to the kitchen. I wait for him to reappear, but several minutes pass and he doesn’t.

              The doorbell rings before he has come back. Numb, I pull myself from the sofa but then I hear James’ footsteps moving towards the door.

              I strain to listen – the living room door is shut – and although I can’t hear what’s being said, I don’t recognise the other two voices. Then the front door closes and James comes back in, looking at me with a blank expression.

              Behind him are two police officers.

              “Caroline Harwell?” one of them asks. I almost shake my head. It feels strange to hear my given name from anyone’s lips but Dad’s. “We need you to come to the station with us.”

I stare at him, unable to digest what he’s saying. He is young. Too young to have a job with such responsibility, surely? And the other one’s skin is as white as paper, almost translucent. I wonder if I’m hallucinating and it is only James standing before me. I squeeze my eyes shut but when I open them again, the two officers are still there, moving closer towards me.

              They haven’t explained whether they are arresting me or asking me to go with them voluntarily, but it makes no difference. I move towards the door and smile at the younger officer, but he doesn’t return it. They follow behind me and as we walk past James, I notice he is not looking at me, or them; he only stares at the floor.

              Perhaps I should hate him at this moment for what he has done, but how can I? He is protecting his sons. At least he has given me the chance to explain.

              Outside, I turn back to look at the house, trying to memorise every detail of the place I have hated for almost a year. I am sure that, whatever happens in the next few hours, I won’t see it again. I even look next door and see Mrs Simmons by her window, holding the curtain away from her so she can have a good look at the spectacle next door. The officers usher me into the back of the car, but I don’t look away or hang my head in shame. Let her make of this what she will.

              As we drive off, I feel as if I’m in a taxi. I let myself believe this, pretending I’m on the way to the airport. It is our honeymoon again and we will soon be enveloped by glorious heat in Barbados.

It is a surprise when my mobile vibrates in my pocket. I thought I had left everything at the house and deliberately didn’t ask if I could bring my bag. They will only take my belongings once I am at the police station so there seemed little point grabbing anything. I pull the phone from my jeans and stare at the screen, willing it to be a message from James. But it is Max. He says he is worried he hasn’t heard from me and hopes I’m okay. I read it a couple of times but don’t reply. Instead, I switch off the phone and drop it to the floor, kicking it under the slip mat. They will find it eventually and can do with it what they wish.

              I have no need for a phone now.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Now

DS Connolly leans forward and stops the tape. “Interview terminated at…five twenty a.m.” The click signals it’s over, or at least my part is. Now it is a waiting game. Once again someone knocks on the door and the detective jumps up, seemingly glad to escape from my story. To escape from me.

              I don’t think he expected me to be so open. I have told them more than they need to know and maybe he doesn’t know what to do with so much information.

              Would it have been enough to simply say that I killed Rhys, and tell them how exactly his head came to be smashed against the Marshalls’ coffee table? But that would go no way to helping them understand, and surely that’s what they want? They are only human, and it is our natural instinct to want to know
why
.

              And now I am left alone again with DC Barnes. She stares at her notes, her shoulders hunched, and I will her to look at me, to say something, just for the company. Even if she only opened her mouth to tell me how despicable I am, it would be better than this silence.

              But she doesn’t move until DS Connolly comes back, relaxing her shoulders as he sits down and whispers to her, indicating something on the paper he has brought back with him. Then he turns to me and there is no trace of the smile I saw earlier. I will have to get used to this; it’s how everyone will look at me from now on.

“The carpet fibres we found at the crime scene are a match for your carpet.” He delivers this news as if he expected a different result. Surely after everything I’ve said it can’t be a shock to him.

              I don’t know how he feels about it but I am glad to hear this. It means this is the end and I am starting a new phase of my life.

“Do you want to add anything?” He stares at me and again I wonder if he is hoping I will suddenly deny it all, tell them it’s been a horrible mistake and I need to be sectioned.

              But I shake my head, because of course there is nothing else to say.

              They both stand up and I notice DC Barnes is almost as tall as DS Connolly. She makes me think of Tabitha, the woman James should have ended up with. Perhaps he still will; life has a funny way of turning out. “Someone will come and take you to a cell until the next available court,” she says. “We’ll also assign you a solicitor as you don’t have one.”

I fall asleep as soon as I am alone in my cell. But within a couple of hours I am woken by someone telling me my solicitor has arrived.

His name is John Samuels and he is in his late fifties with thinning hair and narrow, determined eyes. Even though he tells me sternly that I shouldn’t have spoken to the police without him being there, I immediately like him. He seems like the kind of man who has no time for pleasantries or small talk, only business. The kind of man who doesn’t have a life outside his job.

              They have given us an interview room so we can talk privately, and even provided us with cups of tea. I drink the tasteless liquid and go through my story again. It is not as detailed this time – I am too exhausted to repeat myself – but by the end of it he has all the information he will need. He doesn’t judge me like DS Connolly did in the end, but gets straight to business, telling me how things will play out. I am only half-listening. What I think about while he is talking is how strange it is that a person can commit such a heinous crime and still have someone on her side, a wall to lean on. It is more than anyone deserves.