The Stranger Within

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.  The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the word of the author’s imagination.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

First Published Worldwide 2014

Copyright © Kathryn Croft 2014

Kathryn Croft asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

www.kathryncroft.com

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the publishers.

For Steve and Sharon

Prologue

Now

I am a wife. A mother. A friend. But now I am also a murderer.

              Sitting across from me, his arms folded as he leans forward, DS Connolly shakes his head. He is a handsome man, but when I look at him, all I see is his label. Police officer. He is here to make sure I pay for what I’ve done.

Is there sadness in his eyes? He certainly isn’t gloating. Does he pity me because I don’t look like a murderer? Or talk or act like one? What does a killer look like anyway? Before now I would have been able to produce a description. Someone with a wild or blank expression, something not quite right. But now I know differently.

              “Do you understand what’s happening?” DS Connolly says. “That you’re being charged with murder?”

              Murder. It’s a strange word. It’s probably been used a thousand times in this cold, sterile room, but somehow it feels out of place. As incongruous as I am. I nod, but he doesn’t look convinced. Perhaps he thinks I’m not all there, that I’ll plead temporary insanity. But he’s wrong. My thoughts have never felt more lucid.

              From beside him, his female colleague, whose name I have already forgotten, stares at me, but says nothing. I turn away from the judgement on her face – it will scar me if I hold her gaze – and back to DS Connolly.

              “Are you sure you don’t want a solicitor here with you?” he asks.

              This time I nod, but it does nothing to erase his frown. He’s being nice to me because I have been cooperative. I haven’t fussed or complained. I’ve seen enough television programmes to know I should ask for legal representation, but what’s the point? I must be their ideal suspect. Is that the right word? Well, whatever the case, I will wear the label as I do the others.

              He shrugs and pushes my polystyrene cup further towards me. The tea is bound to be cold by now, but I force myself to drink the tepid liquid. It is flavourless, as if my taste buds have numbed, every part of me frozen by what I’ve done.

              I stare into my drink, avoiding DS Connolly’s searching eyes. If I look at him, I will lose my defences. It would probably be good to cry, to release the remorse in which I’m drowning, but I refuse. Not until I am alone. There is blood on my hands and I need to suffer the consequences.

              The female officer flicks through the papers she is holding and then nods to DS Connolly.

“Okay,” he says. “Are you ready to talk? To tell us everything? We’ll be recording this.” He indicates the tape recorder on the table. It contains three tapes and looks as if it belongs to a past decade, but I try to ignore it, keeping my eyes on him.

              Nodding, I push aside my cup. “I’m ready.”

Chapter One

Three Months Earlier

I stand at the front door, holding it open, a clownish smile on my face as I take a deep breath in preparation. How many times have I done this now? Surely it should be getting easier? But the pounding in my chest begins, and the palms of my hands are clammy.

“Where’s Dad? He said he’d be home early today.” Dillon shoves past me and throws down his school bag. It slides across the floor, reaching my foot.

“Pick that up, Dillon. You know where it goes.” And so today’s argument starts: me asserting my authority, Dillon ignoring it, the usual shouts of
you can’t tell me what to do, you’re not my mum!
But still I persist, hoping that if I’m consistent and determined, things will begin to get easier.

Dillon is taller than me, and with no shoes on I feel like a mouse, but I won’t be intimidated. I’m not afraid of disciplining him, even if I am on shaky ground here, in this house that is more his than mine. In his eyes I am a usurper, but in my eyes I am his mother.

At least he is speaking to me. Most days, unless James is around, all I’m offered is a grunt, or more often than not, cold silence. I wouldn’t mind if I could put his surliness down to normal teenage hormones. But with everyone else, Dillon is the epitome of affability. Even his younger brother – most fifteen-year-old boys’ idea of a pain in the arse – gets the real Dillon.

              Eventually he picks up his bag, hanging it on the coat hook with a huff and snarl. Ignoring him, I answer his question. “Your dad got called to do a shoot. In Surrey, I think.” Somehow I keep the smile on my face, reminding myself my persistence will pay off.

              But Dillon is already breezing into the kitchen, where he knows Luke will be, slamming the door behind him. I close the front door and, with a deep breath, follow him, preparing myself to enter a war zone.

              The boys are perched on stools at the breakfast bar and fall silent as I enter, eyeing me suspiciously. I don’t know what they think I’m going to do, but surely eight months have been enough time to get used to me?

              I run through my usual script. Drinks?
Got our own.
Food?
Not hungry
. Any homework I can help with?
Stop nagging.
It has barely altered since I moved in. Since I became their mother.

              Luke tugs at his brother’s arm. “But Dad said he’d watch me play footy today.” Dillon must have already told him the news about James working late, and they are as disappointed as I am.

              “I’ll come,” I say, already guessing Luke’s answer. Although with my offer I have deviated slightly from the script, I can still predict the outcome.

              Luke looks at me before turning away again.

“It’s okay, I’ll go with you,” Dillon says. And now they are huddled together, speaking in low voices. Even though I can’t know for sure if they are whispering about me – it could be something innocent like school or TV – they know what effect their apparent conspiring has.

              I walk to the other side of the breakfast bar and flick on the kettle. Do I try again? Some days I don’t have the energy, but today I will give it a go. “I’ll drop you at the sports centre,” I say to Luke. This is a bonding opportunity I can’t miss. “Dillon needs to stay at home and revise. He’s got exams coming up.”

              Luke stops whispering and looks up at me. For a moment I think I’ve made progress, but then he speaks. “No!” I am not surprised by his response, but it still hurts.

              “Sorry, but that’s final. Dillon, you know your dad wants you home studying in the evenings.” I wait for the battle to begin, and the boys turn to each other but neither of them says anything.

              Have I really managed to avoid another argument? I put a teabag in a mug and smile at them. “Okay. Well, dinner will be ready at six.” I keep my tone perky; otherwise, like rats, they will sense and prey off my fear.

              Luke wrinkles his face. “Not spaghetti again?” he says.

Forgetting about my tea, I pick up a J-cloth and dampen it under the tap. “Yes, spaghetti.” I will not argue with them about food. I learned that lesson very quickly. Besides, it was only last week that Luke was asking for spaghetti, so I know what game he’s playing.

              “Whatever,” they say in unison. Same words, same thoughts. It might be easier if at least one of them liked me. I can understand Luke’s resistance; how can a twelve-year-old be expected to welcome his father’s new wife with open arms? But Dillon’s attitude surprises me. He’s got a full life: friends, school, hobbies, probably even a girlfriend, so I find his resistance harder to fathom. And I know this is not about the accident.

              While they resume their whispering, I wipe down the worktops, each swipe of the cloth a stark reminder that this isn’t my kitchen. The black granite worktops are beautiful, yes, but they wouldn’t have been my choice. Perhaps they are too luxurious, too distinguished for me. And all they do is remind me I am out of place here, in somebody else’s home, trying my best to be a mother to somebody else’s children.

              By the time I’ve finished cleaning up, the boys have vanished. I hear the front door slam and rush to the living room window, the damp cloth still in my hand.

              I watch them race down the road, neither boy daring to turn back to see if I’ve spotted their trick. I run outside in my bare feet, shouting their names, but it’s too late. For now, they have won.

James insists if I give it time, they will grow used to me. Although I am tempted, I never reply that I don’t want them to get used to me. I want them to like me. He says they don’t even like
him
half the time, but we both know he’s just being kind.

              The dinner won’t take long to prepare, so now I have an hour and a half to myself. I finish making my tea and sink into the sofa. Lauren’s sofa. On the coffee table I spot the magazine I bought from the corner shop a few days ago, which I still haven’t been able to read. It’s not for lack of time. I simply can’t relax when things are so wrong.

I should do some extra studying, but I’m frazzled from my seminar this morning and even more exhausted after my encounter with the boys. So I sit back and close my eyes, hugging my mug to my chest, recharging my batteries. I must be ready for another round. It strikes me that I am partly to blame. I wanted motherhood so badly that I didn’t even flinch when James told me he had children.

              My mobile rings, and in my eagerness to hear a friendly voice, I nearly spill my tea as I reach for the phone. The caller has to be James. Maybe he’s letting me know he won’t be late after all? Things are always better when he’s here; fear of his admonishment forces the boys to be civil. To be normal. But it is not James’ name flashing on the screen; it is my friend Bridgette’s. I’m not disappointed; she is a welcome tonic.

              “Callie? Are you busy? Can you talk?” Her voice is too loud, as it always is, and I am forced to lower the volume.

I tell her I’m not busy, and she bombards me with a flurry of excited words. I’m so happy to hear from her that I don’t even take in what she’s saying. Instead, I let the sound of her voice wrap itself around me like a blanket, comforting in its warmth and familiarity.

              “You’re not okay, are you?”

              “I’m fine. Really.”

She coughs into the phone, a guttural rasp resulting from her ten-year smoking habit. “I can tell, Callie. You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you? I don’t care – it’s fine to switch off when I’m jabbering on – but it means you aren’t all right, so stop pretending you are.”

Our conversations always end up here. No matter how much time goes by, she will always check up on me. “Really, I’m okay.”

“And everything’s all right there?”

“James is great. My course is going well. I –”

“Callie, you know I’m not talking about any of that. Are the boys still giving you grief?”

I fall silent. I don’t want to have this conversation again. Every time we speak it comes back to the boys. There is rarely a time in the day when they are not messing up my head, whether they are home or not.

“Just the usual. But let’s not talk about that now. Please. I’m trying to give my head a break.”

Bridgette agrees and I hear the flick of her cigarette lighter, her voice becoming nasal as she inhales smoke. “Let’s meet up for a drink this evening. I can leave work early and be in Wimbledon by seven. I’ll call Debbie too. When was the last time we were all together?” She will never say it but I know she holds me responsible. Since I married James I have had little time for anything other than studying and being a wife. And trying to be a mother.