Never Close Your Eyes (53 page)

She let go of her handbag and slid on to her bottom on the floor. She didn't know if she had the energy to move; she thought she might stay there all night. She had no idea how long she sat there. After a while she became aware that Dizzy the dog was scratching at the kitchen door, yelping. She must be hungry, poor thing; Nic supposed she should eat something, too, but didn't think she could. She'd had a few bites of a ham sandwich and a cup of tea some time after she'd heard the news that they'd got Alan and that Freya was safe. She could still taste the butter in her mouth. Her stomach keeled.

She leaned over on to her hands and knees and pushed herself up. Best get to the bathroom; she thought she might be sick. Once upright, though, she felt less nauseous. Still in her coat and boots, she staggered down the hall.

The house felt cold and empty. She wished Dominic were there; she desperately needed a hug. But it was just as well that he was staying at a friend's. She was in no fit state to explain things to him now.

Quite what she was going to say to him she had no idea. No one could prepare you for something like that. Dominic was still so innocent; he might have been warned about ‘bad men' but he certainly didn't know what they really did. She wished that she could protect him from the full horror but she knew that would be impossible. It would be in all the papers and on all the TV channels tomorrow. His cosy little world was about to be shattered.

The knotty lump that had been in her throat on and off all day reappeared. She thought it would probably never go away.

Dizzy was howling; she sounded desperate. She'd been on her own all day. Nic opened the kitchen door and reached up to put a hand over her nose and mouth. The room stank. It was only to be expected.

‘Good girl,' she said, half-heartedly patting the dog who was barking and running around her in circles.

She turned on the light, walked slowly over to the glass doors at the far end of the kitchen and pulled them open. The cold air whooshed in, diluting the stench. Dizzy raced outside, yapping, before bowling back in and jumping up at her ankles. Nic staggered. She had to steady herself on the wall. ‘I'll clean up the mess then I'll feed you,' she said. Her whole body felt leaden; she could hardly muster the energy.

Afterwards she went into the sitting room. The cleaner had been yesterday and everything was immaculate: pale cream walls, polished wood floor, cushions neatly lined up on the olive-green sofa, flowers on the console against the far wall.

Something made her walk over to the console and pick up a photo in a silver frame beside the vase. She peered at it, as if trying to decipher something.

The photo was of her and Alan on holiday in Greece before they married. They were sitting on a wall with the azure-blue sea behind them, grinning into the camera. It was clearly windy because her blond bobbed hair was flying about.

They were in casual holiday clothes: she was wearing sandals and a pale-pink sundress with spaghetti straps, he was in a beige polo shirt and white chinos, one leg casually crossed over another. He had his arm around her. Their faces were young, much younger – hers was certainly rounder – and very tanned.

She touched his eyes, his nose, the small, smiling mouth. Were they happy? She frowned. She couldn't remember. They certainly looked happy in the photo, but even then she'd been drinking too much, trying to drown her sorrows. It hadn't worked, of course. Colm, her first husband, the handsome Irish reporter who'd dumped her, had never been far from her thoughts.

Ironic that she'd run from one cheating bastard straight into the arms of a paedophile. She considered the word, turning it over in her mind. It was cold and hard, like a medical term, a description of some disease, perhaps. Funny that the root of the word was the same as that of paediatrician, given that one made children better while the other defiled them.

She flipped the photo over, took it out of its frame and ripped it to shreds.

‘Animal,' she said, scattering the pieces on the floor. ‘Disgusting, filthy, perverted animal. I hope they make you suffer in prison. I hope they tear you to pieces.'

She staggered from the sitting room back into the kitchen. Dizzy was still finishing her food, pushing the ceramic dish around the floor to lick up the last scraps. Nic opened the cupboard to the right of the sink, took down several clean glasses and pulled out a bottle of red wine which was tucked away behind them. She'd considered throwing out all the wine when she gave up drinking but had decided against it; after the accident she'd felt so determined: no temptation, she'd thought, would be too great. Well, that was a joke.

She unscrewed the cap, filled one of the glasses to the brim and took a gulp. It was so good, she'd forgotten how much she loved the taste. She drained the glass, refilled it and then carried the glass in one hand, the bottle in the other, up to the bedroom, taking big slugs as she went.

The room was just as she'd left it this morning: spotless. She remembered how she'd opened the curtains, folded her white nightdress, put it under the pillow and smoothed the green bedspread. Afterwards she'd had a shower and dressed in her dark-brown corduroy skirt, brown tights and a black polo neck. Then she'd put on her make-up, tidied her dressing table and gone downstairs to kiss Alan goodbye.

‘See you tomorrow,' he'd said, brushing his dry lips against hers.

‘Have a good time,' she'd called after him as he crunched down the driveway. As soon as he was out of sight she'd turned, her heart hammering, hurried into the kitchen and phoned the police.

Nic realised that she was still wearing her winter coat and boots but she didn't have time to take them off now. She grabbed the duvet and started pulling off the white cotton cover, which she threw on to the green carpet followed by the pillowcases. She topped up her glass and swallowed some more wine. She eyed the bottle; there was plenty more in the cupboard.

She glanced at the built-in wardrobe, to the right of the bed. It was white, the same as the walls. Alan had one half and she, the other. She flung open the doors on his side and looked in. The hanging section was full of suits and shoes, and to the left were shelves stacked with neatly folded shirts and jumpers, pants and socks. There were dozens of ties in different colours on a special tie rack on the inside of one of the doors.

She opened the big sash window overlooking the back garden, returned to the wardrobe, pulled out a bundle of shirts and flung them on to the grass below. She took another glug of wine, draining the glass, and tipped in the remains of the bottle.

She carried pile after pile of his clothes. He had more than she'd realised; odd, since he wasn't remotely interested in fashion. She laughed as she hurled them out into the night. Then she went into the bathroom and took his dressing gown from a hook on the back of the door, swept his aftershaves, shampoos, toothbrush off the shelves and chucked them out, too. Quite a few bottles fell on to the bathroom floor and smashed. She went back and picked the unbroken ones up. The bits of glass and spilled liquid, she left.

Next she emptied his bedside table. There wasn't much in the one drawer: a comb, reading glasses, the book he picked up occasionally – a thriller. At last, when there were no traces of him left in the room, she leaned right out of the window and stared down at the heap of trousers, jackets, shirts, jumpers, bottles of this and that on the ground beneath.

‘I hate you!' she screamed. Her voice sounded surprisingly loud and piercing in the darkness.

She started to run downstairs, slipped on one of the steps and crashed into the wall at the bottom, banging her head against the windowsill and hitting her shoulder. She winced, but the pain wasn't too bad. She managed to push herself up and staggered into the kitchen, where she grabbed more wine from the cupboard, unscrewed the lid and slurped straight from the bottle.

Matches. Where were the matches? She opened a drawer under the worktop and scrabbled around. She was sure she kept them there. She pulled the drawer out and tipped the contents on to the floor. There was a big box of household matches in amongst the sticky tape, string and glue. Bingo!

Dizzy was sniffing at the contents of the drawer. ‘Come and watch!' Nic slurred. The little dog followed her into the garden. Nic was still in her coat and boots. She went round to the back of the house and tried to light a match. There was too much wind. ‘Shit.' She lit another, and another. No luck.

She leaned over the pile of clothes and shoes, picked up a bottle of aftershave and opened it, splashing the contents over the heap of Alan's things. This time she opened her coat and lit the match inside. Gingerly she took the lighted match out and chucked it, still just burning, on the pile of clothes. Instinctively she jumped back. There was a gratifying boom as the pile caught light.

‘Burn, burn!' she shouted as the flames leaped into the sky. A spark must have landed on Dizzy. She squealed and ran inside. Nic hardly noticed.

She stood, mesmerised, watching the fire spit and crackle. Every now and again there was a loud flash as more aftershave ignited. Nic picked up the bottle of wine at her feet and gulped. Her face was boiling hot but she didn't step back from the flames. She wanted to feel their intensity.

The phone started ringing but she ignored it. Black smoke caught the back of her throat and made her choke. Her eyes were watering so much that she could scarcely see. She poured wine down her gullet. It spilled over and trickled down her face. She wiped her mouth with the back of her arm.

She could hear shouts. People in the garden next door. ‘What's going on?'

‘I'm having a bonfire,' she screamed, without turning round. The fire was roaring so loudly that she wasn't sure if they'd hear.

‘Call 999,' someone cried. ‘It's out of control.'

Nic could see two fires now. The world was lurching from side to side. She could hardly stay upright. She left the blazing fire and staggered back inside, opened the front door wide so that the fire brigade could get in. She vaguely registered that there were no reporters; they'd be back soon. She groped her way into the TV room and plonked down on the sofa. Dizzy jumped on to her lap, whining, and pushed under her hands with her nose, wanting to be petted.

‘Good girl,' said Nic, stroking mechanically. The little dog's body was trembling – or was it Nic's hands? She wasn't sure which.

‘Good girl,' she said again, staring at the blank TV screen in front of her, half expecting the house to explode, scattering herself and its entire contents into the night sky.

Chapter Forty-Eight

It was after 10 p.m. when Evie and Freya finally arrived home. A police officer took them right to the front door and waited while Evie found her key. Bill hurried down the hall to greet them. His shirt was hanging out, he had Evie's blue and yellow checked apron on and was brandishing a wooden spoon. She might have laughed if she hadn't been so worn out and traumatised.

‘Evie! Freya!' he called. ‘You're back!' He glanced at the wooden spoon and lowered it. ‘I, er, I was making scrambled eggs for Michael,' he explained.

Evie started to take off Freya's coat.

‘You must be exhausted,' he went on. ‘Cup of tea?'

Evie managed a smile. ‘I can't think of anything I'd like more.'

She did a double take when she entered the kitchen with Freya following close behind. There was Carol from the writing group, of all people, sitting at the table beside Michael. They seemed to be playing some sort of board game. Michael got up and ran to his mother, who folded him in her arms. Then he gave Freya a hug.

‘You all right?' he mumbled.

‘Yes.'

There was an awkward silence.

‘We're both absolutely knackered,' said Evie. ‘But the main thing is that Freya's safe. It's too late to talk about anything now. We'll discuss it in the morning.'

She stood, sipping tea, while Bill finished the scrambled eggs and talked a little about his afternoon and evening with Michael. She was grateful; Bill knew that now wasn't the time for analysis. He was sensitive like that.

‘He's very good at chess,' he said, ruffling Michael's hair and putting a plate of food in front of him. ‘And I've discovered he's mad about
Star Wars
. He and Carol watched a film while I made the casserole.'

‘You made a casserole?' Evie said. ‘You're amazing.' She couldn't even be bothered to ask why Carol was there. It seemed quite in keeping, somehow, that there should be an unexpected person sitting round her table on an extraordinary day like today.

‘I rather enjoyed it.' Carol grinned, showing off her stained teeth. ‘Michael seemed to know everything that was going to happen. He warned me when there was going to be a scary bit so I could close my eyes.'