Chapter Ten
There’s a fire engine skewed to a halt outside Gloucester Road tube station, and several police cars parked alongside it. There are no sirens, but flashing blue lights bounce eerily off glass all around the station. As I approach, I see that the entrance to the station has been cordoned off, the concourse empty except for one bearded police officer on the phone. A noticeboard has been dragged out into the street, where it’s flexing back and forth, in danger of being blown down by the wind. On it someone has written in black marker pen Station Closed Due To A Serious Incident, followed by two alternative stations within easy walking distance.
Wrapping my scarf tighter against the chill wind, I smile at the policeman, then start to trudge on towards the next station.
Inside, I’m still in turmoil. Dad denied having anything to do with that parcel. But should I believe him?
After all, by his own admission, he’s the one who cleared out Rachel’s room. He saw the snow globe, even noticed it was leaking. Perhaps he took the opportunity to play a nasty trick on me. But I know what Dominic would say if asked. What possible motivation could my father have for doing that?
Because he holds you responsible for Rachel’s death, an inner voice taunts me.
I cross the road, raising my chin.
No, I’m not going back there again. Back to my demons, to that dark place where taking my own life seemed like the only way out. That’s the person I was years ago. A ‘troubled teen’, the doctors called me, though in fact the black dog pursued me into my early twenties, too. But with therapy and medication, I managed to push beyond those horrors, and into the light again.
There’s no way I’m falling back into that negative way of seeing the world. Believing everyone is against me. That everyone in my life is lying to me.
There’s a man huddled in a shop doorway a few hundred feet from the tube station. Cardboard wedged beneath him, dog crouched at his side in the damp folds of a blanket. There’s a rough sign partly tucked under his feet as he tries to sleep, turned away from the bitter wind, his body hunched.
HELP, the sign says simply.
I stop beside the sign, and fumble in my bag for change. Shit, I think, and check my pockets, too. I don’t have anything besides coppers and a few banknotes.
The dog doesn’t move, but the man half turns under the blanket, gazing up at me expectantly. His eyes are heavy-lidded, dark and liquid, and he’s wearing a woollen hat to keep out the cold.
‘Here,’ I say in the end, and hand him a five-pound note.
‘Bless you,’ he says hoarsely.
The flat is in total darkness when I push through the front door, armed with two bags of shopping from the late-opening supermarket on the next block.
It’s all quiet inside. Surprisingly cold, too.
‘Dom?’
I kick the door shut behind me and listen. Nothing. Maybe he’s going to be home later than expected. Sometimes the hospital asks him to work an extra hour or two if things get really hectic in Accident and Emergency.
‘Dom?’
But he’s not there.
I wander into the kitchen and stab at the light switch with my elbow. The place is a mess as usual. We need to spend some time tidying up if it’s going to look nice for this weekend, when we’ve invited friends over for drinks.
Dumping the shopping on the kitchen counter, I frown.
Why the hell is it so cold?
I strip off my gloves and coat, and check the prepayment meter, situated on the wall above the television. The catch is fiddly and I have to stand on a chair to reach the box. But there’s still a tenner to go before it runs out. Dominic is pretty good at remembering to keep it topped up.
I unpack the shopping hurriedly, then put the oven on a medium heat, partly to warm the room but also because I’ve bought a packet of frozen vegetable rissoles for Dominic’s supper. He likes that kind of thing. Putting the kettle on to boil, I set out two mugs for when he finally comes home, then stand warming my hands in the rising steam.
Bloody hell, it’s absolutely freezing in here. I stamp and hug myself. Perhaps I should put my coat back on.
Have we left a window open by accident?
I wander out again into the dark hallway. Sure enough, there’s a severe draught coming from the bathroom door, which is slightly ajar. I stare at it, then give the door an experimental push with my foot. As it creaks wider, I feel an icy blast of air.
The building is an old Victorian villa, renovated into flats that overlook the mainline railway tracks, most of the windows at the back old-fashioned sash jobs. Useful for the fire escape below, but heavy and unwieldy. The bathroom window is open, the lower half sucking out all the warmth in the flat.
I slam the sash window down and fasten it, shaking my head. ‘Dom . . .’ He usually takes a shower before work. He must have opened the window for ventilation, as there’s no other way to air out the bathroom when it gets steamy, but then forgotten to shut it before leaving for the hospital.
It’s now almost as cold inside the flat as outside.
Whacking up the two storage heaters to their maximum output setting, I duck into the bedroom to fetch my warm, blue-flannel dressing gown. Comfort clothing for when I’m feeling at my most miserable.
I hit the light switch, and stop, suddenly unable to breathe.
My chest contracts painfully.
‘What the hell?’
There on the bed is my wedding dress, removed from its protective cover and laid out as though ready to be worn. Last week I picked it up after a few minor alterations needed to be made, and hung it on the back of the bedroom door in an opaque bag supplied by the bridal shop. ‘It’s unlucky to see the dress before the wedding,’ I told Dominic, who laughed at my superstitious nature. My dream dress, as I’d described it to my mother tonight over dinner, telling her how impatient I was for Dominic to see me wearing it on the big day itself.
Only it’s no longer beautiful.
Someone’s taken a pair of scissors to my wedding dress, cutting it into ribbons. There are large, fierce rips in the sweetheart bodice, and all the way down the clinging, mermaid-style skirt. Shreds of satin lie on the floor and the bed. Sequins sparkle from odd corners of the bedroom as though they were deliberately torn off and scattered about like mock confetti.
But the most shocking thing is the thick, gooey red substance splashed across the shimmering white.
Paint?
‘Oh my God.’
I take a few impulsive steps forward, as if to snatch up my ruined dress, even though it’s far too late to rescue it.
That’s when the smell hits me.
Blood.