Never Close Your Eyes (45 page)

‘What else can you see?' Zelda persisted.

‘I must leave now,' Evie said. ‘I don't like it here. I don't feel safe.'

‘Just a few more minutes,' Zelda soothed. ‘You must find out how it ends.'

‘But I don't want to. I'm scared.'

‘Look around you,' Zelda commanded. Evie didn't like her tone of voice. She sounded so cold. But she had to do as she was told. Zelda was in control.

‘Can you see yourself?' Zelda persisted. ‘What are you doin'?'

Evie glanced left and right, up and down. Her eyes fell on a pile of what looked like clothes lying in a messy heap in the gutter. The pile moved. She screamed. ‘I don't like it, I want to go.'

‘What can you see?' Zelda hissed. ‘What are you lookin' at?'

Evie let out a cry. ‘It's me. I'm lying on the ground. Everyone's walking past. I – I think I'm dying. I'm on my own. No one cares . . .'

A high-pitched squeak, like a car braking suddenly, followed by a series of bangs, sliced through her subconscious.

‘Evie? What the hell . . . ?'

She opened her eyes and turned around. It took a moment or two for her to focus. Bill appeared to be trying to climb through her sash window. He was half in, half out, banging on the pane. He was struggling to push the bottom bit up high enough to accommodate himself. It always was a tricky window to open. The lock had broken years ago.

‘Evie?' She was aware of Zelda's voice on the other end of the line, but she was too confused to answer. She sat, mesmerised, while Bill gave one final shove and tumbled on to the kitchen floor virtually at her feet.

‘Evie?' he said, getting up quickly and brushing himself down. ‘I was in the garden. I heard you scream. I thought something had happened. Are you all right?'

She put the phone on the table. ‘Yes, yes,' she said, rubbing her eyes. ‘I was doing regression therapy. I got a bit upset. I could see myself lying half dead in the gutter.' She realised that must sound ridiculous. She attempted a laugh.

‘Regression therapy?' Bill's face had gone red. He snatched the phone from the table and put it to his mouth. ‘What a load of bollocks,' he shouted. ‘What kind of crackpot are you?'

Evie was shocked. She'd never seen Bill so angry before. In fact she didn't think she'd seen him properly angry at all.

‘There's no need to talk like that,' she said, grabbing the phone back. ‘Zelda's my friend, she's an expert in her field.'

‘Your
friend
?' he protested. ‘Funny sort of friend who terrifies the living daylights out of you.' He relaxed a little. ‘What's this regression therapy supposed to do, anyway?'

Evie put her hand up. ‘One moment. Zelda?' She listened for a second or two, but the line had gone dead. Not surprising. Zelda wouldn't want to hang around eavesdropping on an argument.

Disappointment washed over her. She'd never get to know, now, what it all meant. If she was regressed again, it might be to a completely different life with a whole new set of characters. Yet she felt she'd been close to understanding something really important.

She felt hot, despite the fact that the window was wide open. ‘You shouldn't have barged in like that, Bill,' she said. ‘I'd been hypnotised. You interrupted the treatment. It could have been dangerous.'

‘Treatment?' Bill glared at her. ‘It's absolute cobblers, all this psychic stuff, surely you know that?'

She stared at her feet. She felt as if she were a schoolgirl, being ticked off by the teacher.

‘I'm sorry.' His voice was softer now. ‘But you had me worried. I honestly thought you were being attacked.'

She shook her head.

‘I just don't think this sort of thing is good for you, or for anyone,' he went on. ‘Especially not when you've been through a bad—'

Evie pulled her hand away. ‘Oh, I see. So you think I'm too weak and fragile to cope with it, do you? Look, I appreciate your concern, but I'm not some stupid, impressionable little girl tampering with things she doesn't understand. I've been talking to Zelda for months. I know she's good, she's given me some fantastic advice. And if she helps me, what's the problem?'

Bill looked at her intensely with his pale-blue eyes, forcing her to return his gaze. ‘I don't think you're a silly little girl. Quite the opposite,' he said quietly. ‘I think you're a beautiful, intelligent, fully grown woman.'

She felt herself blush and dropped her gaze.

‘But even clever, fully grown women make mistakes, and I'm absolutely sure that you're making a mistake with this Zelda woman. She sounds like really bad news.'

Evie remembered what Zelda had told her about the tall, handsome stranger. It must be true; she had to believe it. And all the money she'd spent, surely that hadn't gone to waste?

‘You're entitled to your opinion,' she huffed. ‘And I'm entitled to mine. Thank you for checking I was all right. Now, if you don't mind I've got work to do. I've a wedding dress to finish.'

Bill sighed. He glanced at the window. ‘I'll use the door this time if you don't mind. Would you like me to repair the lock before I go?'

Evie hesitated. It would be nice to get it fixed. It always worried her slightly that it didn't lock properly. She peeked at him. His mouth turned down slightly at the corners, which made him look disapproving. He could be so bloody superior sometimes.

She straightened her shoulders and stuck her chin out. ‘No thank you,' she said. ‘I'll do it myself.'

‘As you wish,' he replied.

Chapter Forty

Luckily the suitcases were in the spare-room cupboard at the top of the house, so she wouldn't disturb anyone. It was past midnight and even Tom would be fast asleep. She'd had several days to think. In fact she'd thought of little else. She could still taste Gary's saliva in her mouth.

She closed her eyes. It mustn't happen again. The consequences were too terrifying to contemplate. She remembered her fingers, scrabbling around in the air, searching for something. She felt sick. She had to get as far away as possible.

Becca tiptoed past her own and the children's bedrooms and Monica's room on the half-landing above. When she reached the top, she pulled a small black leather holdall off the highest shelf of the cupboard – she wouldn't need much – and carried it into the study. She opened the middle drawer of her filing cabinet and found her passport right at the front. Then she sneaked downstairs to the utility room.

The light was terribly bright, it hurt her eyes, but there was a comforting smell of washing powder and fabric conditioner and the washing machine was humming quietly. Monica must have put a load in before she went to bed.

It felt so ordinary and normal. Life going on as it always had.

It felt like the day that Jude died.

Becca's chest was heavy, as if there were a lead weight in there instead of flesh and blood. Concentrate, she told herself. Focus on the task in hand. She was relieved to see a pair of her jeans and a couple of sweatshirts in a pile on the tumble-dryer waiting to be ironed, as well as some clean knickers and a few pairs of Tom's socks. They'd do. Her toothbrush and face cream and so on were in the en-suite bathroom, beside where Tom was sleeping, so she'd have to buy new when she got there. She laughed softly to herself. She couldn't quite believe that she was thinking about face cream. Force of habit.

She switched off the light and slunk into the kitchen, where she found an A4 notepad and pen beside the phone.

‘Darling Tom,' she wrote. Tears pricked in her eyes and dribbled down her cheeks. She wiped them with her sleeve. This was no good. She needed to be strong, in control. She continued writing:

I've done something bad, which you and the children will find hard, if not impossible, to understand. I've gone away for a while. I think it's better if I'm on my own.

I love you and the children so much. Please look after them for me. Tell them Mummy isn't well, tell them whatever seems best. But make sure they know that I'll always love them, they're the most beautiful, precious children in the world and I'm so proud of them.

Her eyes were so full of tears that she could hardly read the words on the page, but there was no time to lose. She resumed writing:

Tell them always to work hard and do their best. And please say that what I did was a terrible mistake. I regretted it the moment it happened. I'll never, ever forgive myself.

Tom, you've been a wonderful husband. I'm sorry that I've been grumpy sometimes and haven't always appreciated you or told you how much I love you. You're a very special man.

Goodbye, darling.

Becca xxx

There was a noise upstairs. It sounded like a door creaking. Becca froze. This mustn't happen. She waited for a moment or two but the house fell silent again. She found an envelope in one of the drawers, folded her note, put it inside and sealed the envelope. Then she wrote ‘TOM' in capital letters on the front and placed it by the kettle.

Luckily she always left the house before the others were up anyway, so Monica would give the kids breakfast and take them to school as usual. School. She tried to imagine the scene. Them going off, all clean and shiny and full, scuffling in the hall for their bags, happy that it was Friday and the weekend tomorrow. Monica urging them to hurry. Then Tom discovering the note.

Maybe he'd wake early and find it before – and keep them home. She bit her lip. Please let them be protected for as long as possible, cocooned in their snug little world.

She sneaked into the hall, shoved a pair of trainers in her bag and pulled her black North Face anorak out of the coat cupboard. She was still in her work clothes but it didn't matter, she'd change later.

She paused for a moment in front of the hall mirror. Her face looked so strange and pale, almost ghostly in the half-light. Most of her make-up had worn off and there were dark smudges under her eyes. She licked her finger and rubbed the smudges off as well as she could; she didn't want to draw attention to herself.

There was one of Alice's red scrunchies on the radiator cover. Some of her long, fair hairs were stuck to it. Becca's chest tightened. She stared at herself again. Her own, dyed, nearly black hair looked so fake to her now, fake and ugly and obvious. She was a joke, a woman in a grotesque party mask. She couldn't understand how she'd got away with it.

She picked the scrunchie up and pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail. Then she put on the anorak, picked up the holdall and her handbag and stepped out into the night. Her warm breath was making curly patterns in front of her. She glanced quickly left and right, half expecting Gary to jump out from behind a tree. He must have gone now, surely? But she couldn't be sure.

The coast seemed clear. Her black Mercedes was just a few yards up the road. She walked quietly for a few steps until she was almost there, then she ran to the door and bundled in.

She locked the doors and checked her watch: 1.15 a.m. At this time of night, with no traffic, she'd be in Folkestone in about an hour and a half. There was only a limited service on the Shuttle at the moment but they still ran every ninety minutes. God willing, she'd make Calais before sunrise.

She remembered something and rootled in her bag for her BlackBerry. She must be quick. She unclicked her seatbelt, opened the door a little, leaned as far out as she could and threw it underneath the back wheel of the car.

She pictured Gary's face, crushed into a frown, punching in her number over and over again, his brain going into overdrive as he tried to figure out what was happening. He'd never guess, never believe that she'd give it all up, that she'd really do it. Ha! That gave her some satisfaction.

She put her foot on the pedal and reversed out of the parking slot. The BlackBerry made a delicious crackling sound as she drove over it – and away.

Nic's eyelids snapped open. It took her a moment or two to work out where she was. She listened for Alan's breathing, reached out under the duvet and felt across the bed but there was just a cold space where he should have been.

She sat up. The door was half open. The landing light was off but there was a yellow glow coming from underneath his study door opposite. She glanced at the electric clock beside her. It was 1.30 a.m. She groaned. What the hell was he doing?

She got up to pee, but decided instead to go and see him, to try to coax him to bed. It wasn't good for him to work so late. It wasn't normal. She remembered the magazines and shook her head, hoping to disperse the images. She was wide awake now; it'd probably take her hours to drop off.